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Firstpublished 1925 
If'AThe Caravan Library February 1928 
Reprinted October 1928, 1930 





Juno and the Paycock was first produced in the Abbey 
Theatre, Dublin, on March the 3rd, 1924, with the 
following cast : 

"CAPTAIN " JACK BOYLE . . . Barry Fitzgerald 

"JUNO" BOYLE Sara Allgood 

JOHNNY BOYLE Arthur Shields 

MARY BOYLE Eileen Crowe 

"JOXER" DALY. EI. McCormick 

MRS. MAISIE MADIGAN . . . Maureen Delany 
"NEEDLE" NUGENT .... Michael J. Dolan 

MRS. TANCRED Christine Hayden 

JERRYDEVINE. ... P. J. Cardan 

CHARLIE BENTHAM .... Gabriel J. Fallon 

FIRST IRREGULAR. Maurice Esmonde 

SECOND IRREGULAR .... Michael J. Dolan 

COAL-BLOCK VENDOR .... Tony Quinn 

SEWING-MACHINE MAN .... Peter Nolan 

Two NEIGHBOURS . Eileen O'Kelly, Irene Murphy 



A Tragedy in Three Acts 





JUNO BOYLE, his wife. 

JOHNNY BOYLE \ ' . , ., , 

| their children. 



** NEEDLE " NUGENT, a tailor. 



CHARLIE BENTHAM, a school teacher. 







Residents in the Tenement 


ACT I. — The living apartment of a two-roomed tenancy 
of the Boyle family, in a tenement house in Dublin. 
ACT II. — The same. 
ACT III. — The same. 

A few days elapse between Acts I. and II., and two 
months between Acts n. and III. 

During Act III. the curtain is lowered for a few minutes 
to denote the lapse of one hour. 

Period of the play, 1922. 



The living room of a two-room tenancy occupied by 
the BOYLE family in a tenement house in 
Dublin. Left, a door leading to another part 
of the house; left of door a window looking 
into the street; at back a dresser; farther to 
right at back, a window looking into the 
back of the house. Between the window and 
. the dresser is a picture of the Virgin; below 
the picture, on a bracket, is a crimson bowl in 
which a floating votive light is burning. 
Farther to the right is a small bed partly 
concealed by cretonne hangings strung on a 
twine. To the right is the fireplace; near 
the fireplace is a door leading to the other 
room. Beside the fireplace is a box con- 
taining coal. On the mantelshelf is an 
alarm clock lying on its face. In a corner 
near the window looking into the back is a 
galvanized bath. A table and some chairs. 
On the table are breakfast things for one. A 


teapot is on the hob and a frying-pan stands 
inside the fender. There are a few books 
on the dresser and one on the table. Leaning 
against the dresser is a long-handled 
shovel — the kind invariably used by 
labourers when turning concrete or mixing 
mortar. JOHNNY BOYLE is sitting crouched 
beside the fire. MARY with her jumper off- 
it is lying on the back of a chair — is arranging 
her hair before a tiny mirror perched on the 
table. Beside the mirror is stretched out the 
morning paper which she looks at when she 
isn't gazing into the mirror. She is a well- 
made and good-looking girl of twenty-two. 
Two forces are working in her mind — one, 
through the circumstances of her life, pulling 
her back; the other, through the influence of 
books she has read, pushing her forward. 
The opposing forces are apparent in her 
speech and her manners, both of which are 
degraded by her environment, and improved 
by her acquaintance — slight though it be — 
with literature. The time is early forenoon. 

MARY (looking at the paper). On a little bye- 
road, out beyant Finglas, he was found. 

(MRS. BOYLE enters by door on right; she 
has been shopping and carries a small 


parcel in her hand. She is forty-five 
years of age, and twenty years ago she 
must have been a pretty woman; but 
her face has now assumed that look 
which ultimately settles down upon the 
faces of the women of the working- 
class; a look of listless monotony and 
harassed anxiety, blending with an 
expression of mechanical resistance. 
Were circumstances favourable, she 
would probably be a handsome, active 
and clever woman.') 

MRS. BOYLE. Isn't he come in yet? 

MARY. No, mother. 

MRS. BOYLE. Oh, he'll come in when he 
likes; struttin' about the town like a paycock 
with Joxer, I suppose. I hear all about Mrs. 
Tancred's son is in this mornin's paper. 

MARY. The full details are in it this mornin'; 
seven wounds he had — one entherin* the neck, 
with an exit wound beneath the left shoulder- 
blade; another in the left breast penethratin' 
the heart, an' ... 

JOHNNY (springing up from the fire]. Oh, quit 
that readin', for God's sakel Are yous losin' 
all your feelins? It'll soon be that none of 
yous'll read anythin' that's not about butcherin'l 
(He goes quickly into the room on left?) 


MARY. He's gettin' very sensitive, all of a 
sudden 1 

MRS. BOYLE. I'll read it myself, Mary, by 
an' by, when I come home. Everybody's 
sayin' that he was a Die-hard — thanks be to 
God that Johnny had nothin' to do with him 
this long time. . . . (Opening the parcel and 
taking out some sausages, which she places on a 
plate} Ah, then, if that father o' yours doesn't 
come in soon for his breakfast, he may go 
without any; I'll not wait much longer for him. 

MARY. Can't you let him get it himself when 
he comes in? 

MRS. BOYLE. Yes, an' let him bring in Joxer 
Daly along with him? Ay, that's what he'd 
like, an* that's what he's waitin' for — till he 
thinks I'm gone to work, an' then sail in with 
the boul' Joxer, to burn all the coal an' dhrink 
all the tea in the place, to show them what a 
good Samaritan he is! But I'll stop here till 
he comes in, if I have to wait till to-morrow 


VOICE OF JOHNNY. Bring us in a dhrink o' 

MRS. BOYLE. Bring in that fella a dhrink o' 
wather, for God's sake, Mary, 



MARY. Isn't he big an' able enough to come 
out an' get it himself? 

MRS. BOYLE. If you weren't well yourself 
you'd like somebody to bring you in a dhrink 
o' wather. (She brings in drink and returns?) 

MRS. BOYLE. Isn't it terrible to have to be 
waitin' this wayl You'd think he was bringin' 
twenty pouns a week into the house the way 
he's going on. He wore out the Health 
Insurance long ago, he's afther wearin' out 
the unemployment dole, an', now, he's thryin' 
to wear out me! An' constantly singin', no 
less, when he ought always to be on his knees 
offerin' up a Novena for a job! 

MARY (tying a ribbon, fillet wise around her 
head]. I don't like this ribbon, ma; I think 
I'll wear the green — it looks betther than the 

MRS. BOYLE. Ah, wear whatever ribbon you 
like, girl, only don't be botherin' me. I don't 
know what a girl on strike wants to be wearin' 
a ribbon round her head for or silk stockins 
on her legs either; its wearin' them things that 
make the employers think they're givin' yous 
too much money. 

MARY. The hour is past now when we'll 
ask the employers' permission to wear what 
we like. 



MRS. BOYLE. I don't know why you wanted 
to walk out for Jennie Claffey; up to this you 
never had a good word for her. 

MARY. What's the use of belongin' to a 
Trades Union if you won't stand up for your 
principles? Why did they sack her? It was 
a clear case of victimization. We couldn't let 
her walk the streets, could we? 

MRS. BOYLE. No, of course yous couldn't — 
yous wanted to keep her company. Wan 
victim wasn't enough. When the employers 
sacrifice wan victim, the Trades Unions go 
wan betther be sacrificin' a hundred. 

MARY, It doesn't matther what you say, 
ma — a principle's a principle. 

MRS. BOYLE. Yis; an' when I go into ouT 
Murphy's to-morrow, an' he gets to know 
that, instead o' payin' all, I'm goin' to borry 
more, what'll he say when I tell him a principle's 
a principle? What'll we do if he refuses to 
give us any more on tick? 

MARY. He daren't refuse — if he does, can't 
you tell him he's paid? 

MRS. BOYLE. It's lookin' as if he was paid, 
whether he refuses or no, 

(JOHNNY appears at the door on left. 
He can be plainly seen now; he is a 
thin delicate fellow, something younger 


than MARY. He has evidently gone 
through a rough time. His face is 
pale and drawn; there is a tremulous 
look of indefinite fear in his eyes. The 
left sleeve of his coat is empty, and he 
walks with a slight halt. ") 
JOHNNY. I was lyin' down; I thought yous 
were gone. OnT Simon Mackay is thrampin' 
about like a horse over me head, an' I can't 
sleep with him — they're like thunder-claps in 
me brain! The curse o' — God forgive me for 
goin' to curse! 

MRS. BOYLE. There, now; go back an' lie 
down agen, an I'll bring you in a nice cup o' 

JOHNNY. Tay, tay, tay! You're always 
thinkin' o' tay. If a man was dyin', you'd 
thry to make him swally a cup o' tay! 

(He goes back) 

MRS. BOYLE. I don't know what's goin' to 
be done with him. The bullet he got in the 
hip in Easter Week was bad enough, but the 
bomb that shatthered his arm in the fight in 
O'Connell Street put the finishin' touch on 
him. I knew he was makin' a fool of himself. 
God knows I went down on me bended knees 
to him not to go agen the Free State, 

MARY. He stuck to his principles, an', no 


matther how you may argue, ma, a principle's 
a principle. 

VOICE OF JOHNNY. Is Mary goin' to stay 

MARY. No, I'm not goin' to stay here; you 
can't expect me to be always at your beck an' 
call, can you? 

VOICE OF JOHNNY, I won't stop here be 

MRS. BOYLE. Amn't I nicely handicapped 
with the whole o' yous! I don't know what 
any o' yous ud do without your ma. (To 
JOHNNY) Your father'll be here in a minute, 
an' if you want any thin', he'll get it for you. 

JOHNNY. I hate assin' him for anythin'. . . . 
He hates to be assed to stir. ... Is the light 
lightin' before the picture o' the Virgin? 

MRS. BOYLE. Yis, yis! The wan inside to 
St. Anthony isn't enough, but he must have 
another wan to the Virgin here! 

(JERRY DEVINE enters hastily. He is 
about twenty-five, well set, active and 
earnest. He is a type, becoming very 
common now in the Labour Movement, 
of a mind knowing enough to make the 
mass of his associates, who know less, 
a power, and too little to broaden that 
power for the benefit of all. MARY 


seizes her jumper and runs hastily into 
room left.} 

JERRY (breathless). Where's the Captain, 
Mrs. Boyle, where's the Captain? 

MRS. BOYLE. You may well ass a body that: 
he's wherever Joxer Daly is — dhrinkin' in 
some snug or another. 

JERRY. Father Farrell is just afther stoppin' 
to tell me to run up an' get him to go to the 
new job that's goin' on in Rathmines; his 
cousin is foreman o' the job, an' Father Farrell 
was speakin' to him about poor Johnny an' 
his father bein' idle so long, an' the foreman 
told Father Farrell to send the Captain up an' 
he'd give him a start — I wondher where I'd 
find him? 

MRS. BOYLE. You'll find he's ayther in Ryan's 
or Foley's. 

JERRY. I'll run round to Ryan's — I know 
it's a great house o' Joxer's. (He rushes out J 

MRS. BOYLE (piteously). There now, he'll miss 
that job, or I know for whatl If he gets win' 
o' the word, he'll not come back till evenin', 
so that it'll be too late. There'll never be any 
good got out o' him so long as he goes with 
that shouldher - shruggin' Joxer. I killin' 
meself workin', an' he sthruttin' about from 
mornin' till night like a paycock! 



(The steps of two persons are heard 
coming up a flight of stairs. They are 
the footsteps of CAPTAIN BOYLE and 
JOXER. CAPTAIN BOYLE is singing in 
a deep) sonorous, self-honouring voiced) 
THE CAPTAIN. Sweet Spirit, hear me prayer! 
Hear ... oh ... hear . . . me prayer 
. . . hear, oh, hear . . . Oh, he ... ar ... 
oh, he ... ar ... me . , . pray . . , erl 
JOXER (outside). Ah, that's a darlin' song, a 
daaarlin' songl 

MRS. BOYLE (viciously). Sweet spirit hear his 
prayer! Ah, then, I'll take me solemn affey- 
davey, it's not for a job he's prayin'l 

(She sits down on the bed so that the 
cretonne hangings hide her from the 
'view of those entering?) 
(THE CAPTAIN comes slowly in. He 
is a man of about sixty; stout, grey- 
haired and stocky. His neck is short, 
and his head looks like a stone ball that 
one sometimes sees on top of a gate-post. 
His cheeks, reddish-purple, are puffed 
out, as if he were always repressing an 
almost irrepressible ejaculation. On 
his upper lip is a crisp, tightly cropped 
moustache, he carries himself with the 
upper part of his body slightly thrown 


back, and his stomach slightly thrust 
forward. His walk is a stow, con- 
sequential strut. His clothes are dingy, 
and he wears a faded seaman's cap 
with a glazed peak.) 
BOYLE (to JOXER, who is still outside). Come 
on, come on in, Joxer; she's gone out long 
ago, man. If there's nothing else to be got, 
we'll furrage out a cup o' tay, anyway. It's 
the only bit I get in comfort when she's away. 
'Tisn't Juno should be her pet name at all, but 
Deirdre of the Sorras, for she's always grousin'. 
(JOXER steps cautiously into the room. He 
may be younger than THE CAPTAIN but 
he looks a lot older. His face is like 
a bundle of crinkled paper; his eyes 
have a cunning twinkle; he is spare 
and loosely built; he has a habit of 
constantly shrugging his shoulders with 
a peculiar twitching movement, meant 
to be ingratiating. His face is invari- 
ably ornamented with a grin.) 
JOXER. It's a terrible thing to be tied to a 
woman that's always grousin'. I don't know 
how you stick it — it ud put years on me. It's 
a good job she has to be so of en away, for 
(with a shrug} when the cat's away, the mice 
can play! 



BOYLE (with a commanding and complacent 
gesture). Pull over to the fire, Joxer, an' we'll 
have a cup o' tay in a minute. 

JOXER. Ah, a cup o' tay's a darlin' thing, a 
daaarlin' thing — the cup that cheers but 
doesn't . . . 

(JOXER' S rhapsody is cut short by the sight 
of JUNO coming forward and confront- 
ing the two cronies. Both are stupefied.) 
MRS. BOYLE (with sweet irony — poking the fire', 
and turning her head to glare at JOXER). Pull 
over to the fire, Joxer Daly, an' we'll have a 
cup o' tay in a minute! Are you sure, now, 
you wouldn't like an egg? 

JOXER. I can't stop, Mrs. Boyle; I'm in a 
desperate hurry, a desperate hurry. 

MRS. BOYLE. Pull over to the fire, Joxer 
Daly; people is always far more comfortabler 
here than they are in their own place. 

(JOXER makes hastily for the door. BOYLE 
stirs to follow him; thinks of something 
to relieve the situation — stops, and says 


JOXER (at door ready to bolt). Yis? 

BOYLE. You know the foreman o' that job 
that's goin' on down in Killesther, don't you, 




JOXER (puzzled). Foreman — Killesther? 

BOYLE (with a meaning looK)' He's a butty o 
yours, isn't he? 

JOXER (the truth dawning on him}. The fore- 
man at Killesther — oh yis, yis. He's an oul' 
butty o' mine — oh, he's a darlin' man, a 
daarlin' man. 

BOYLE. Oh, then, it's a sure thing. It's a 
pity we didn't go down at breakfast first thing 
this mornin' — we might ha' been working now; 
but you didn't know it then. 

JOXER (with a shrug). It's betther late than 

BOYLE. It's nearly time we got a start, any- 
how; I'm fed up knockin' round, doin' nothin'. 
He promised you — gave you the straight 

JOXER. Yis. " Come down on the blow o' 
dinner," says he, "an' I'll start you, an' any 
friend you like to brin' with you." Ah, says 
I, you're a darlin' man, a daaarlin' man. 

BOYLE. Well, it couldn't come at a betther 
time — we're a long time waitin' for it. 

JOXER. Indeed we were; but it's a long 
lane that has no turnin'. 

BOYLE. The blow up for dinner is at one — 
wait till I see what time it 'tis. (He goes over 
to the mantelpiece, and gingerly lifts the clock.} 



MRS. BOYLE. Min 1 now, how you go on 
fiddlin' with that clock — you know the least 
little thing sets it asthray. 

BOYLE. The job couldn't come at a betther 
time; I'm feelin' in great fettle, Joxer. I'd 
hardly believe I ever had a pain in me legs, 
an' last week I was nearly crippled with 

JOXER. That's betther an' betther; ah, God 
never shut wan door but he opened another! 

BOYLE. It's only eleven o'clock; we've 
lashins o' time. I'll slip on me oul' moleskins 
afther breakfast, an' we can saunther down at 
our ayse. (Putting his hand on the shovel) I 
think, Joxer, we'd betther bring our shovels? 

JOXER. Yis, Captain, yis; it's betther to go 
fully prepared an' ready for all eventualities. 
You bring your long-tailed shovel, an' I'll bring 
me navvy. We mighten' want them, an', then 
agen, we might: for want of a nail the shoe 
was lost, for want of a shoe the horse was lost, 
an' for want of a horse the man was lost — aw, 
that's a darlin' proverb, a daarlin' . . . 

(As JOXER is finishing his sentence, MRS. 
BOYLE approaches the door and JOXER 
retreats hurriedly. She shuts the door 
with a bang.} 
BOYLE (suggestively). We won't be long 


pullin' ourselves together agen when I'm work- 
ing for a few weeks. 

(MRS. BOYLE takes no notice?) 

BOYLE. The foreman on the job is an oul' 
butty o' Joxer's; I have an idea that I know 
him meself. (Silence) . . . There's a button 
off the back o' me moleskin trousers. ... If 
you leave out a needle an' thread I'll sew it on 
meself. . . . Thanks be to God, the pains in 
me legs is gone, anyhow ! 

MRS. BOYLE (with a burst). Look here, Mr. 
Jacky Boyle, them yarns won't go down with 
Juno. I know you an' Joxer Daly of an oul' 
date, an', if you think you're able to come it 
over me with them fairy tales, you're in the 
wrong shop. 

BOYLE (coughing subduedly to relieve the tense- 
ness of the situation). U-u-u-ugh! 

MRS. BOYLE. Butty o' Joxer's ! Oh, you'll 
do a lot o' good as long as you continue to be 
a butty o' Joxer's ! 

BOYLE. U-u-u-ugh! 

MRS. BOYLE. Shovel ! Ah, then, me boyo, 
you'd do far more work with a knife an' fork 
than ever you'll do with a shovel! If there 
was e'er a genuine job goin' you'd be dh'other 
way about — not able to lift your arms with the 
pains in your legs! Your poor wife slavin' 

17 C 


to keep the bit in your mouth, an' you galli- 
vantin' about all the day like a paycock! 

BOYLE. It ud be betther for a man to be 
dead, betther for a man to be dead. 

MRS. BOYLE (ignoring the interruption}. Every- 
body callin' you " Captain ", an' you only wanst 
on the wather, in an oul' collier from here to 
Liverpool, when anybody, to listen or look at 
you, ud take you for a second Christo For 

BOYLE. Are you never goin' to give us a 

MRS. BOYLE. Oh, you're never tired' o' 
lookin' for a rest. 

BOYLE. D'ye want to dhrive me out o' the 

MRS. BOYLE. It ud be easier to dhrive you 
out o' the house than to dhrive you into a job. 
Here, sit down an' take your breakfast — it may 
be the last you'll get, for I don't know where 
the next is goin' to come from. 

BOYLE. If I get this job we'll be all right. 

MRS, BOYLE, Did ye see Jerry Devine? 

BOYLE (testily). No, I didn't see him. 

MRS. BOYLE. No, but you seen Joxer. Well, 
he was here lookin' for you. 

BOYLE. Well, let him look! 

MRS. BOYLE. Oh, indeed, he may well look. 


for it lid be hard for him to see you, an' you 
stuck in Ryan's snug. 

BOYLE. I wasn't in Ryan's snug — I don't 
go into Ryan's. 

MRS. BOYLE. Oh, is there a mad dog there? 
Well, if you weren't in Ryan's you were in 

BOYLE. I'm telling you for the last three 
weeks I haven't tasted a dhrop of intoxicatin' 
liquor. I wasn't in ayther wan snug or 
dh'other — I could swear that on a prayer- 
book — I'm as innocent as the child unborn! 

MRS. BOYLE. Well, if you'd been in for your 
breakfast you'd ha' seen him. 

BOYLE (suspiciously}. What does he want me 

MRS. BOYLE. He'll be back any minute an' 
then you'll soon know. 

BOYLE. I'll dhrop out an' see if I can meet 

MRS. BOYLE. You'll sit down an' take your 
breakfast, an' let me go to me work, for I'm 
an hour late already waitin' for you. 

BOYLE. You needn't ha' waited, for I'll take 
no breakfast — I've a little spirit left in me 
still ! 

MRS. BOYLE. Are you goin' to have your 
breakfast — yes or no? 



BOYLE (too proud to yield}. I'll have no 
breakfast — yous can keep your breakfast. 
(Plaintively) I'll knock out a bit somewhere, 
never fear. 

MRS. BOYLE. Nobody's goin' to coax you — 
don't think that. (She vigorously replaces the 
pan and the sausages in the press.) 

BOYLE. I've a little spirit left in me still. 

(JERRY DEVINE enters hastily?) 

JERRY. Oh, here you are at last! I've been 
searchin' for you everywhere. The foreman 
in Foley's told me you hadn't left the snug 
with Joxer ten minutes before I went in. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' he swearin' on the holy 
prayer-book that he wasn't in no snug! 

BOYLE (to JERRY). What business is it o' 
yours whether I was in a snug or no? What 
do you want to be gallopin' about afther me 
for? Is a man not to be allowed to leave his 
house for a minute without havin' a pack o' 
spies, pimps an' informers cantherin' at his 

JERRY. Oh, you're takin' a wrong view of 
it, Mr. Boyle; I simply was anxious to do you 
a good turn. I have a message for you from 
Father Farrell: he says that if you go to the 
job that's on in Rathmines, an' ask for Foreman 
Mangan, you'll get a start, 



BOYLE. That's all right, but I don't want 
the motions of me body to be watched the way 
an asthronomer ud watch a star. If you're 
folleyin' Mary aself, you've no pereeogative 
to be folleyin' me. (Suddenly catching his thigh) 
U-ugh, I'm afther gettin' a terrible twinge in 
me right leg! 

MRS, BOYLE. Oh, it won't be very long now 
till it travels into your left wan. It's miraculous 
that whenever he scents a job in front of him, 
his legs begin to fail himl Then, me bucko, 
if you lose this chance, you may go an' furrage 
for yourself! 

JERRY. This job'll last for some time too, 
Captain, an' as soon as the foundations are in, 
it'll be cushy enough. 

BOYLE. Won't it be a climbin' job? How 
d'ye expect me to be able to go up a ladder 
with these legs? An', if I get up aself, how 
am I goin' to get down agen? 

MRS. BOYLE (victous/y). Get wan o' the 
labourers to carry you down in a hod! You 
can't climb a laddher, but you can skip like a 
goat into a snug! 

JERRY. I wouldn't let meself be let down 
that easy, Mr. Boyle; a little exercise, now, 
might do you all the good in the world. 

BOYLE. It's a docthor you should have been, 


Devine — maybe you know more about the 
pains in me legs than meself that has them? 

JERRY (irritated}. Oh, I know nothin' about 
the pains in your legs; I've brought the 
message that Father Farrell gave me, an' that's 
all I can do. 

MRS. BOYLE. Here, sit down an' take your 
breakfast, an' go an' get ready; an' don't be 
actin' as if you couldn't pull a wing out of a 
dead bee. 

BOYLE. I want no breakfast, I tell you; it 
ud choke me afther all that's been said. I've 
a little spirit left in me still. 

MRS. BOYLE. Well, let's see your spirit, then, 
an' go in at wanst an' put on your moleskin 
trousers ! 

BOYLE (moving towards the door on left). It 
ud be betther for a man to be dead! U-ugh! 
There's another twinge in me other leg! 
Nobody but meself knows the sufferin' I'm 
goin' through with the pains in these legs o' 

(He goes into the room on left as MARY 
comes out with her hat in her hand?) 
MRS. BOYLE. I'll have to push off now, for 
I'm terrible late already, but I was determined 
to stay an' hunt that Joxer this time. 

(She goes of) 



JERRY. Are you going out, Mary? 

MARY. It looks like it when I'm putting on 
my hat, doesn't it? 

JERRY. The bitther word agen, Mary. 

MARY. You won't allow me to be friendly 
with you; if I thry, you deliberately mis- 
undherstand it, 

JERRY. I didn't always misundherstand it; 
you were ofen delighted to have the arms of 
Jerry around you. 

MARY. If you go on talkin' like this, Jerry 
Devine, you'll make me hate you ! 

JERRY, Well, let it be either a weddin' or 
-a wakel Listen, Mary, I'm standin' for the 
Secretaryship of our Union. There's only 
one opposin' me; I'm popular with all the 
men, an' a good speaker — all are sayin' that 
I'll get elected. 

MARY. Well? 

JERRY. The job's worth three hundred an' 
fifty pounds a year, Mary. You an' I could 
live nice an' cosily on that; it would lift you 
out o' this place an' . . . 

MARY. I haven't time to listen to you now — 
I have to go. 

(She is going out when JERRY bars the 
way. J 

JERRY (appea/ing/y). Mary, what's come 


over you with me for the last few weeks? You 
hardly speak to me, an' then only a word with 
a face o' bittherness on it. Have you forgotten, 
Mary, all the happy evenins that were as sweet 
as the scented hawthorn that sheltered the sides 
o' the road as we saunthered through the 

MARY. That's all over now. When you 
get your new job. Jerry, you won't be long 
findin' a girl far betther than I am for your 

JERRY. Never, never, Mary! No matther 
what happens, you'll always be the same to 

MARY. I must be off; please let me go, 

JERRY. I'll go a bit o' the way with you. 
MARY. You needn't, thanks; I want to be 
by meself. 

JERRY (catching her arm). You're goin' to 
meet another fella; you've clicked with some 
one else, me lady! 

MARY. That's no concern o' yours, Jerry 
Devine; let me go! 

JERRY. I saw yous comin' out o' the Corn- 
flower Dance Class, an' you hangin' on his 
arm — a thin, lanky strip of a Micky Dazzler, 
with a walkin'-stick an' gloves ! 



VOICE OF JOHNNY (loudly). What are you 
doin' there — pullin' about everything! 

VOICE OF BOYLE (loudly and 'viciously]. I'm 
puttin' on me moleskin trousers! 

MARY. You're hurtin' me arm! Let me 
go, or I'll scream, an' then you'll have the oul' 
fella out on top of us ! 

JERRY. Don't be so hard on a fella, Mary, 
don't be so hard. 

BOYLE (appearing at the door). What's the 
meanin' of all this hillabaloo? 

MARY. Let me go, let me go! 

BOYLE. D'ye hear me — what's all this hilla- 
baloo about? 

JERRY (plaintively). Will you not give us 
one kind word, one kind word, Mary? 

BOYLE. D'ye hear me talkin' to yous? What's 
all this hillabaloo for? 

JERRY. Let me kiss your hand, your little, 
tiny, white hand! 

BOYLE. Your little, tiny, white hand — arc 
you takin' leave o' your senses, man? 

(MARY breaks away and rushes out.) 

BOYLE. This is nice goins on in front of her 

JERRY. Ah, dhry up, for God's sake! (He 
follows MARY.) 

BOYLE. Chiselurs don't care a damn now 


about their parents, they're bringin' their 
fathers' grey hairs down with sorra to the 
grave, an' laughin' at it, laughin' at it. Ah? 
I suppose it's just the same everywhere — the 
whole worl's in a state o' chassis! (He sits by 
the fire) Breakfast! Well, they can keep their 
breakfast for me. Not if they went down on 
their bended knees would I take it — I'll show 
them I've a little spirit left in me still! (He 
goes over to the press, takes out a plate and 
looks at if) Sassigel Well, let her keep her 
sassige. (He returns to the fire, takes up the 
teapot and gives it a gentle shake ) The tea's wet 
right enough. (A pause; he rises, goes to the 
press, takes out the sausage, puts it on the pan, 
and puts both on the fire. He attends the sausage 
with afork.} 

BOYLE (singing): 

When the robins nest agen, 

And the flowers are in bloom, 

When the Springtime's sunny smile seems to banish 

all sorrow an' gloom; 
Then me bonny blue-ey'd lad, if me heart be true till 

then — 

He's promised he'll come back to me, 
When the robins nest agen! 

(He lifts his head at the high note, and 
then drops his eyes to the pan.} 


BOYLE (singing): 

When the . . . 

(Steps are heard approaching; he whips 
the pan off the fire and puts it under 
the bed) then sits down at the fire. The 
door opens and a bearded man looking 
in says]: 

You don't happen to want a sewin' machine? 

BOYLE (furiously). No, I don't want e'er a 
sewin' machine! 

(He returns the pan to the fire, and 
commences to sing again.) 
BOYLE (singing): 

When the robins nest agen, 

And the flowers they are in bloom, 

He's . . . 

(A thundering knock is heard at the street 
door. ") 

BOYLE. There's a terrible tatheraraa — that's 
a stranger — that's nobody belongin' to the 
house. (Another loud knock.) 

JOXER (sticking his head in at the door). Did 
ye hear them tatherarahs? 

BOYLE. Well, Joxer, I'm not deaf. 

JOHNNY (appearing in his shirt and trousers 
at the door on left; his face is anxious and his 
voice is tremulous). Who's that at the door; 



who's that at the door? Who gave that 
knock — d'ye yous hear me — are yous deaf or 
dhrunk or what? 

BOYLE (to JOHNNY). How the hell do I know 
who 'tis? Joxer, stick your head out o' the 
window an' see. 

JOXER. An' mebbe get a bullet in the kisser? 
Ah, none o' them thricks for Joxerl It's 
betther to be a coward than a corpse! 

BOYLE (looking cautiously out of the window). 
It's a fella in a thrench coat. 

JOHNNY. Holy Mary, Mother o' God, I ... 

BOYLE. He's goin' away — he must ha' got 
tired knockin'. 

(JOHNNY returns to the room on left.} 

BOYLE. Sit down an' have a cup o' tay, 

JOXER. I'm afraid the missus ud pop in on 
us agen before we'd know where we are. 
Somethins tellin' me to go at wanst. 

BOYLE. Don't be superstitious, man; we're 
Dublin men, an' not boyos that's only afther 
comin' up from the bog o' Allen — though if 
she did come in, right enough, we'd be caught 
like rats in a thrap. 

JOXER, An' you know the sort she is — she 
wouldn't listen to reason — an' wanse bitten 
twice shy. 



BOYLE (going over to the window at back). If 
the worst came to the worst, you could dart 
out here, Joxer; it's only a dhrop of a few feet 
to the roof of the return room, an' the first 
minute she goes into dh'other room, I'll give 
you the bend, an' you can slip in an' away, 

JOXER (yielding to the temptation). Ah, I 
won't stop very long anyhow. (Picking up a 
book from the table) Who's is the buk? 

BOYLE. Aw, one o' Mary's; she's always 
readin' lately — nothin' but thrash, too. There's 
one I was lookin' at dh'other day: three stories, 
The Doll's House, Ghosts, an' The Wild Duck 
— buks only fit for chiselurs ! 

JOXER. Didja ever rade Elizabeth, or TK 
Exile o' Sibayria ... ah, it's a darlin' story, 
a daarlin' story ! 

BOYLE. You eat your sassige, an' never min' 
TV Exile o Sibayria. 

(Both sit down; BOYLE fills out tea, pours 
gravy on JOXER'S plate, and keeps the 
sausage for himself?) 

JOXER. What are you wearin' your moleskin 
trousers for? 

BOYLE. I have to go to a job, Joxer. Just 
afther you'd gone, Devine kem runnin' in to tell 
us that Father Farrell said if I went down to the 
job that's goin' on in Rathmines I'd get a start. 



JOXER. Be the holy, that's good news! 

BOYLE. How is it good news? I wondher 
if you were in my condition, would you call 
it good news? 

JOXER. I thought . . . 

BOYLE. You thought! You think too 
sudden sometimes, Joxer. D'ye know, I'm 
hardly able to crawl with the pains in me legs! 

JOXER. Yis, yis; I forgot the pains in your 
legs. I know you can do nothin' while they're 
at you, 

BOYLE. You forgot; I don't think any of 
yous realize the state I'm in with the pains in 
me legs. What ud happen if I had to carry a 
bag o' cement? 

JOXER. Ah, any man havin' the like of them 
pains id be down an' out, down an' out. 

BOYLE. I wouldn't mind if he had said it to 
meself; but, no, oh no, he rushes in an' shouts 
it out in front o' Juno, an' you know what Juno 
is, Joxer. We all know Devine knows a little 
more than the rest of us, but he doesn't act 
as if he did; he's a good boy, sober, able to 
talk an' all that, but still . . . 

JOXER. Oh ay; able to argufy, but still . . . 

BOYLE. If he's runnin' afther Mary, aself, 
he's not goin' to be runnin' afther me. Captain 
Boyle's able to take care of himself. Afther 



all, I'm not gettin' brought up on Virol. I 
never heard him usin' a curse; I don't believe 
he was ever dhrunk in his life — sure he's not 
like a Christian at all! 

JOXER. You're afther takin' the word out 
o' me mouth — afther all, a Christian's natural, 
but he's unnatural. 

BOYLE, His ouP fella was just the same — a 
Wicklow man. 

JOXER. A Wicklow manl That explains 
the whole thing. I've met many a Wicklow 
man in me time, but I never met wan that was 
any good. 

BOYLE. " Father Farrell," says he, " sent me 
down to tell you." Father Farrell! . . . D'ye 
know, Joxer, I never like to be beholden to 
any o' the clergy. 

JOXER. It's dangerous, right enough. 

BOYLE. If they do anything for you, they'd 
want you to be livin' in the Chapel. . . . I'm 
goin' to tell you something Joxer, that I 
wouldn't tell to anybody else — the clergy 
always had too much power over the people 
in this unfortunate country. 

JOXER. You could sing that if you had an 
air to it! r 

BOYLE (becoming enthusiastic). Didn't they 
prevent the people in " '47 " from seizin' the 



corn, an' they starvin'; didn't they down 
Parnell; didn't they say that hell wasn't hot 
enough nor eternity long enough to punish 
the Fenians? We don't forget, we don't forget 
them things, Joxer. If they've taken every- 
thing else from us, Joxer, they've left us our 

JOXER (emotionally). For mem'ry's the only 
friend that grief can call its own, that grief . , . 
can . . . call ... its ownl 

BOYLE. Father Farrell's beginnin' to take 
a great intherest in Captain Boyle; because of 
what Johnny did for his country, says he to 
me wan day. It's a curious way to reward 
Johnny be makin' his poor oul' father work. 
But, that's what the clergy want, Joxer — work, 
work, work for me an' you; havin' us mulin' 
from mornin' till night, so that they may be in 
betther fettle when they come hoppin' round 
for their dues! Job! Well, let him give his 
job to wan of his hymn-singin', prayer-spoutin', 
craw-thumpin' Confraternity men ! 

.,. (The voice of a coal-block vendor is heard 
chanting in the street.} 

VOICE OF COAL VENDOR. Blocks . • . Coal- 

blocksl Blocks . . . coal-blocks! 

JOXER. God be with the young days when 
you were steppin' the deck of a manly ship, with 



the win' blowin' a hurricane through the masts, 
an' the only sound you'd hear was, " Port your 
helm! " an' the only answer, " Port it is, sir! " 

BOYLE. Them was days, Joxer, them was 
days. Nothin' was too hot or too heavy for 
me then. Sailin' from the Gulf o' Mexico to 
the Antanartic Ocean. I seen things, I seen 
things, Joxer, that no mortal man should speak 
about that knows his Catechism. Ofen, an' 
ofen, when I was fixed to the wheel with a 
marlinspike, an' the wins blowin' fierce an' 
the waves lashin' an' lashin', till you'd think 
every minute was goin' to be your last, an' it 
blowed, an' blowed — blew is the right word, 
Joxer, but blowed is what the sailors use. . . . 

JOXER. Aw, it's a darlin' word, a daarlin' 

BOYLE. An', as it blowed an' blowed, I ofen 
looked up at the sky an' assed meself the 
question — what is the stars, what is the stars? 

VOICE OF COAL VENDOR. Any blocks, coal- 
blocks;' blocks, coal-blocks ! 

JOXER, Ah, that's the question, that's the 
question — what is the stars? 

BOYLE. An' then, I'd have another look, 
an' I'd ass meself — what is the moon? 

JOXER. Ah, that's the question — what is 
the moon, what is the moon? 

33 D 


(Rapid steps are heard coming towards the 
door. BOYLE makes desperate efforts 
to hide everything; JOXER rushes to the 
window in a frantic effort to get out; 
BOYLE begins to innocently lilt " O/z, me 
darlin' Jennie, I will be thrue to thee ", 
when the door is opened, and the black 
face of the COAL VENDOR appears?) 
THE COAL VENDOR. D'yes want any blocks? 
BOYLE (with a roar). No, we don't want any 
blocks ! 

JOXER (coming back with a sigh of relief). 
That's afther puttin' the heart across me — I 
could ha' sworn it was Juno, I'd betther be 
goin', Captain; you couldn't tell the minute 
Juno'd hop in on us. 

BOYLE. Let her hop in; we may as well 
have it out first as at last. I've made up me 
mind — I'm not goin' to do only what she damn 
well likes. 

JOXER. Them sentiments does you credit. 
Captain; I don't like to say anything as between 
man an' wife, but I say as a butty, as a butty, 
Captain, that you've stuck it too long, an' that 
it's about time you showed a little spunk. 

How can a man die betther than facin' fearful odds, 
For th' ashes of his fathers an' the temples of his 



BOYLE. She has her rights — there's no one 
denyin' it, but haven't I me rights too? 

JOXER. Of course you have — the sacred 
rights o' man! 

BOYLE. To-day, Joxer, there's goin' to be 
issued a proclamation be me, establishin' an 
independent Republic, an' Juno'll have to 
take an oath of allegiance. 

JOXER. Be firm, be firm, Captain; the first 
few minutes'll be the worst : — if you gently 
touch a nettle it'll sting you for your pains; 
grasp it like a lad of mettle, an' as soft as silk 

VOICE OF JUNO OUTSIDE. Can't stop, Mrs. 
Madigan — I haven't a minute! 

JOXER (Jlying out of the window}. Holy God, 
here she is! 

BOYLE (packing the things away with a rush 
in the press). I knew that fella ud stop till she 
was in on top of us! (He sits down by the fire?) 
(JUNO enters hastily; she is flurried and 

JUNO. Oh, you're in — you must have been 
only afther comin' in? 

BOYLE. No, I never went out. 

JUNO. It's curious, then, you never heard 
the knockin'. 

(She puts her coat and hat on bed) 


BOYLE. Knockin'? Of course I heard the 

JUNO. An' why didn't you open the door, 
then? I suppose you were so busy with Joxer 
that you hadn't time. 

BOYLE. I haven't seen Joxer since I seen 
him before. Joxer ! What ud bring Joxer 

JUNO. D'ye mean to tell me that the pair 
of yous wasn't collogin' together here when me 
back was turned? 

BOYLE. What ud we be collogin' together 
about? I have somethin' else to think of 
besides collogin' with Joxer. I can swear on 
all the holy prayer-books . . . 

MRS. BOYLE. That you weren't in no snugl 
Go on in at wanst now, an' take off that mole- 
skin trousers o' yours, an' put on a collar an' 
tie to smarten yourself up a bit. There's a 
visitor comin' with Mary in a minute, an' he 
has great news for you. 

BOYLE. A job, I suppose; let us get wan 
first before we start lookin' for another. 

MRS. BOYLE. That's the thing that's able 
to put the win' up you. Well, it's no job, 
but news that'll give you the chance o' your 

BOYLE. What's all the mysthery about? 


MRS. BOYLE. G'win an take off the moleskin 
trousers when you're told! 

(BOYLE goes into room on left.} 
(MRS. BOYLE tidies up the room, puts the 
shovel under the bed, and goes to the 

MRS. BOYLE, Oh, God bless us, looka the 
way everything's thrun about! Oh, Joxer was 
here, Joxer was here! 

he is a young man of twenty-five, tall, 
good-looking, with a very high opinion 
of himself generally. He is dressed in 
a brown coat, brown knee-breeches, 
grey stockings, a brown sweater, with a 
deep blue tie; he carries gloves and a 
MRS. BOYLE {fussing round}. Come in, Mr. 
Bentham; sit down, Mr. Bentham, in this chair; 
it's more comfortabler than that, Mr. Bentham. 
Himself'll be here in a minute; he's just takin' 
off his trousers. 
MARY. Mother! 

BENTHAM. Please don't put yourself to any 
trouble, Mrs. Boyle — I'm quite all right here, 
thank you. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' to think of you knowin' 
Mary, an' she knowin' the news you had for 


us, an' wouldn't let on; but it's all the more 
welcomer now, for we were on our last lap! 

kickin' up all the racket for? 

BOYLE (roughly]. I'm takin' off me moleskin 
trousers ! 

JOHNNY. Can't you do it, then, without 
lettin' th' whole house know you're takin' off 
your trousers? What d'ye want puttin' them 
on an' takin' them off again? 

BOYLE. Will you let me alone, will you let 
me alone? Am I never goin' to be done 
thryin' to please th' whole o' yous? 


th' state o' th' place, Mr. Bentham; th' minute 
I turn me back that man o' mine always 
makes a litther o' th' place, a litther o' th' 

BENTHAM. Don't worry, Mrs. Boyle; it's 
all right, I assure . . . 

BOYLE (inside). Where's me braces; where 
in th' name o' God did I leave me braces. . . . 
Ay, did you see where I put me braces? 

JOHNNY (inside, calling out). Ma, will you 
come in here an' take da away ou' o' this or 
he'll dhrive me mad. 

MRS. BOYLE (going towards door). Dear, dear, 
dear, that man'll be lookin' for somethin' 


on th' day o' Judgement. (Looking into room 
and calling to BOYLE) Look at your braces, man, 
hangin' round your neck! 

BOYLE (inside). Aw, Holy Godl 

MRS. BOYLE (calling). Johnny, Johnny, come 
out here for a minute. 

JOHNNY. Ah, leave Johnny alone, an' don't 
be annoyin' him! 

MRS. BOYLE. Come on, Johnny, till I inthro- 
duce you to Mr. Bentham. (To BENTHAM) 
Me son, Mr. Bentham; he's afther goin' 
through the mill. He was only a chiselur of 
a Boy Scout in Easter Week, when he got hit 
in the hip; and his arm was blew off in the 
fight in O'Connell Street. (JOHNNY comes in?) 
Here he is, Mr. Bentham; Mr, Bentham, 
Johnny. None can deny he done his bit for 
Irelan', if that's goin' to do him any good, 

JOHNNY (boastfully). I'd do it agen, ma, 
I'd do it agen; for a principle's a principle. 

MRS. BOYLE. Ah, you lost your best prin- 
ciple, me boy, when you lost your arm; them's 
the only sort o' principles that's any good to a 
workin' man. 

JOHNNY. Ireland only half free'll never be 
at peace while she has a son left to pull a 

MRS. BOYLE. To be sure, to be sure — no 


bread's a lot betther than half a loaf, ( Calling 
loudly into BOYLE) Will you hurry up there? 

(BOYLE enters in his best trousers, which 
arent too good, and looks very un- 
comfortable in his collar and tie?) 

MRS. BOYLE. This is me husband; Mr. 
Boyle, Mr. Bentham. 

BENTHAM. Ah, very glad to know you, 
Mr, Boyle. How are you? 

BOYLE. Ah, I'm not too well at all; I suffer 
terrible with pains in me legs. Juno can tell 
you there what . . . 

MRS. BOYLE. You won't have many pains in 
your legs when you hear what Mr. Bentham 
has to tell you. 

BENTHAM. Junol What an interesting 
jiamej It reminds, one of Homer' s~glorious 
story of ancient gods and heroes 
,' BOYLE Yis doesn't it? You see, Juno was 
born an' christened, in june,I met her in June;' 
we were married in June an Johnny was born 
in June, j>o wan day I says to her,l' You. should 
ha' hfffn cnWeA Tnnn " an' the name stuck to. 

MRS. BOYLE. Here, we can talk o' them 
things agen; let Mr. Bentham say what he 
has to say now. 

BENTHAM. Well, Mr, Boyle, I suppose 


you'll remember a Mr. Ellison of Santry — 
he's a relative of yours, I think. 

BOYLE (viciously). Is it that prognosticator 
an' procrastinator! Of course I remember 

BENTHAM. Well, he's dead, Mr. Boyle . . . 
BOYLE. Sorra many'll go into mournin' for 

MRS. BOYLE. Wait till you hear what Mr. 
Bentham has to say, an' then, maybe, you'll 
change your opinion. 

BENTHAM. A week before he died he sent 
for me to write his will for him. He told me 
that there were two only that he wished to 
leave his property to: his second cousin, 
Michael Finnegan of Santry, and John Boyle, 
his first cousin of Dublin. 

BOYLE (excitedly). Me, is it me, me? 

BENTHAM. You, Mr. Boyle; I'll read a 
copy of the will that I have here with me, 
which has been duly filed in the Court of 
Probate. (He takes a paper from his pocket and 

reads}' 6th February 1922. 

This is the last Will and Testament of William 
Ellison, of Santry, in the County of Dublin. 1 hereby 
order and wish my property to be sold and divided as 
follows: — 

£20 to the St. Vincent De Paul Society. 



£60 for Masses for the repose of my soul ('5s. for 
Each Mass). 

The rest of my property to be divided between my 
first and second cousins. 

I hereby appoint Timothy Buddy, of Santry, and 
Hugh Brierly, of Coolock, to be my Executors. 


BOYLE (eagerly]. An 1 how much'll be comin' 
out of it, Mr. Bentham? 

BENTHAM. The Executors told me that half 
of the property would be anything between 
£1500 and £2000. 

MARY. A fortune, father, a fortune ! 

JOHNNY. We'll be able to get out o' this 
place now, an' go somewhere we're not known. 

MRS. BOYLE. You won't have to trouble 
about a job for awhile, Jack. 

BOYLE (fervently). I'll never doubt the good- 
ness o' God agen. 

BENTHAM. I congratulate you, Mr. Boyle. 
(They shake hands.} 

BOYLE. An' now, Mr. Bentham, you'll 
have to have a wet. 


BOYLE. A wet — ajar — a boull 


MRS. BOYLE. Jack, you're speakin' to Mr. 
Bentham, an' not to Joxer. 

BOYLE (solemnly). Juno . . . Mary . . . 
Johnny . . . we'll have to go into mournin' 
at wanst. ... I never expected that poor Bill 
ud die so sudden. . . . Well, we all have to 
die some day . . . you, Juno, to-day ... an' 
me, maybe, to-morrow. . . . It's sad, but it 
can't be helped. . . . Requiescat in pace . . . 
or, usin' our oul' tongue like St. Patrick or 
St. Briget, Guh sayereejeea ayera! 

MARY. Oh, father, that's not Rest in Peace; 
that's God save Ireland. 

BOYLE. U-u-ugh, it's all the same — isn't it 
a prayer? . . . Juno, I'm done with Joxer; 
he's nothin' but a prognosticator an' a ... 

JOXER (climbing angrily through the window 
and bounding into the room). You're done with 
Joxer, are you? Maybe you thought I'd stop 
on the roof all the night for you! Joxer out 
on the roof with the win' blowin' through him 
was nothin' to you an' your friend with the 
collar an' tie! 

MRS. BOYLE. What in the name o' God 
brought you out on the roof; what were you 
doin' there? 

JOXER (ironically). I was dhreamin' I was 
standin' on the bridge of a ship, an' she sailin' 


the Antartic Ocean, an' it blowed, an' blowed, 
an' I lookin' up at the sky an' sayin', what is 
the stars, what is the stars? 

MRS. BOYLE (opening the door and standing at 
it). Here, get ou' o' this, Joxer Daly; I was 
always thinkin' you had a slate off. 

JOXER (moving to the door). I have to laugh 
every time I look at the deep-sea sailor; an' 
a row on a river ud make him sea-sick 1 

BOYLE. Get ou' o' this before I take the 
law into me own hands 1 

JOXER (going out). Say aw rewaeawr, but not 
good-bye. Lookin' for work, an' prayin' to 
God he won't get itl ( He goes. ') 

MRS. BOYLE. I'm tired tellin' you what Joxer 
was; maybe now you see yourself the kind he is. 

BOYLE. He'll never blow the froth off a 
pint o' mine agen, that's a sure thing. Johnny 
. . . Mary . . . you're to keep yourselves to 
yourselves for the future. Juno, I'm done 
with Joxer. . . . I'm a new man from this 
out. . . . (Clasping JUNO'S hand, and singing 

Oh, me darlin 1 Juno, I will be thrue to thee; 

Me own, me darlin' Juno, you're all the world to me. 




SCENE: The same, but the furniture is more 
plentiful, and of a vulgar nature. A 
glaringly upholstered arm-chair and lounge; 
cheap pictures andphotos everywhere. Every 
available spot is ornamented with huge vases 
filled with artificial flowers. Crossed 
festoons of coloured paper chains stretch from 
end to end of ceiling. On the table is an old 
attache case. It is about six in the evening, 
and two days after the First Act. BOYLE, 
in his shirt sleeves, is voluptuously stretched 
on the sofa; he is smoking a clay pipe. He 
is half asleep. A lamp is lighting on the 
table. After afew moments" pause the voice 
of JOXER is heard singing softly outside at 
the door — " Me pipe I'll smoke, as I dhrive 
,me moke — are you there, Mor . , . ee . . , 
ar .../.. . teet!" 



BOYLE (leaping up, takes a pen in his hand and 
busies himself with papers). Come along, Joxer, 
me son, come along. 

JOXER (putting his head in). Are you be 

BOYLE. Come on, come on; that doesn't 
matther; I'm masther now, an' I'm goin' to 
remain masther. 

(JOXER comes in.) 
JOXER. How d'ye feel now, as a man o' 

BOYLE (solemnly). It's a responsibility, Joxer, 
a great responsibility. 

JOXER. I suppose 'tis now, though you 
wouldn't think it. 

BOYLE. Joxer, han' me over that attackey 
case on the table there. (JOXER hands the case.} 
Ever since the Will was passed I've run 
hundhreds o' dockyments through me hans — 
I tell you, you have to keep your wits about 
you. (He busies himself with papers.} 

JOXER. Well, I won't disturb you; I'll 
dhrop in when . . . 

BOYLE (hastily). It's all right, Joxer, this is 
the last one to be signed to-day. (He signs a 
paper, puts it into the case, which he shuts' with 
a snap, and sits back pompously in the chair.} 
Now, Joxer, you want to see me; I'm at 



your service — what can I do for you, me 

JOXER. I've just dhropped in with the 
£3 : 55. that Mrs. Madigan riz on the blankets 
an' table for you, an' she says you're to be in 
no hurry payin' it back. 

BOYLE. She won't be long without it; I 
expect the first cheque for a couple o' hundhred 
any day. There's the five bob for yourself — 
go on, take it, man; it'll not be the last you'll 
get from the Captain. Now an' agen we have 
our differ, but we're there together all the time. 

JOXER. Me for you, an' you for me, like 
the two Musketeers. 

BOYLE. Father Farrell stopped me to-day 
an' tole me how glad he was I fell in for the 

JOXER. He'll be stoppin' you ofen enough 
now; I suppose it was " Mr. " Boyle with 

BOYLE. He shuk me be the han'. . . . 

JOXER (ironically). I met with Napper Tandy, 
an' he shuk me be the han'! 

BOYLE. You're seldom asthray, Joxer, but 
you're wrong shipped this time. What you're 
sayin' of Father Farrell is very near to blas- 
feemey. I don't like any one to talk dis- 
respectful of Father Farrell, 


JOXER. You're takin' me up wrong. Captain; 
I wouldn't let a word be said agen Father 
Farrell — the heart o' the rowl, that's what he 
is; I always said he was a darlin' man, a 
daarlin' man. 

BOYLE. Comin' up the stairs who did I meet 
but that bummer, Nugent. " I seen you 
talkin' to Father Farrell," says he, with a grin 
on him. " He'll be folleyin' you," says he, 
" like a Guardian Angel from this out " — all 
the time the oul' grin on him, Joxer. 

JOXER. I never seen him yet but he had 
that oul' grin on him! 

BOYLE. " Mr. Nugent," says I, " Father 
Farrell is a man o' the people, an', as far as I 
know the History o' me country, the priests 
was always in the van of the fight for Irelan's 

JOXER (fervently): 

Who was it led the van, Soggart Aroon? 
Since the fight first began, Soggart Aroon? 

BOYLE. " Who are you tellin'," says he? 
" Didn't they let down the Fenians, an' didn't 
they do in Parnell? An' now ..." " You ought 
to be ashamed o' yourself," says I, interruptin' 
him, " not to know the History o' your country." 
An' I left him gawkin' where he was. 


JOXER. Where ignorance 's bliss,tis folly to 
be_wise_;_ I wondher did he ever" read the 
"Story o' Irelan'. 

BOYLE. Be J. L. Sullivan? Don't you know 
he didn't. 

JOXER. Ah, it's a darlin' buk, a daarlin' buk! 

BOYLE. You'd betther be goin', now, Joxer, 
his Majesty, Bentham, '11 be here any minute, 

JOXER. Be the way things is lookin', it'll 
be a match between him an' Mary. She's 
thrun over Jerry altogether. Well, I hope it 
will, for he's a darlin' man. 

BOYLE. I'm glad you think so— I don't. 
(Irritably] What's darlin' about him? 

JOXER (nonplussed). I only seen him twiced; 
if you want to know me, come an' live with 

BOYLE. He's too ignified for me — to hear 
him talk you'd think he knew as much as a 
Boney's Oraculum. He's given up his job as 
teacher, an' is goin' to become a solicitor in 
Dublin — he's been studyin' law. I suppose 
he thinks I'll set him up, but he's wrong 
shipped. An' th' other fella — Jerry's as bad. 
The two o' them ud give you a pain in your 
face, listenin' to them; Jerry believin' in 
nothin', an' Bentham believin' in everythin', 



One that says all is God an' no man; an' 
th' other that says all is man an' no God! 

JOXER. Well, I'll be off now. 

BOYLE. Don't forget to dhrop down afther 
awhile; we'll have a quiet jar, an' a song or 

JOXER. Never fear. 

BOYLE. An' tell Mrs. Madigan that I hope 
we'll have the pleasure of her organization at 
our little enthertainment. 

JOXER. Righto; we'll come down together. 

(He goes out.} 

(JOHNNY comes from room on left) and sits 
down moodily at the fire. BOYLE looks 
at him for a few moments, and shakes 
his head. He fills his pipe.} 
door. Jack; this thing has me nearly kilt with 
the weight. 

(BOYLE opens the door. JUNO enters 
carrying the box of a gramophone, 
followed by MARY carrying the horn 
and some parcels. JUNO leaves the 
box on the table and flops into a chair?) 
JUNO. Carryin' that from Henry Street was 
no joke. 

BOYLE. U-u-ugh, that's a grand-lookin' 
insthrument — how much was it? 



JUNO. Pound down, an' five to be paid at 
two shillins a week. 

BOYLE. That's reasonable enough. 

JUNO. I'm afraid we're runnin' into too 
much debt; first the furniture, an' now 

BOYLE. The whole lot won't be much out 
of ,£2000. 

MARY. I don't know what you wanted a 
gramophone for — I know Charlie hates them; 
he says they're destructive of real music. 

BOYLE. Desthructive of music — that fella 
ud give you a pain in your face. All a gramo- 
phone wants is to be properly played; it's 
thrue wondher is only felt when everythins 
quiet — what a gramophone wants is dead 
silence ! 

MARY. But, father, Jerry says the same; 
afther all you can only appreciate music when 
your ear is properly trained. 

BOYLE. That's another fella ud give you a 
pain in your face. Properly thrainedl I 
suppose you couldn't appreciate football unless 
your fut was properly thrained. 

MRS. BOYLE (to MARY). Go on in ower that 
an' dress, or Charlie '11 be in on you, an' tea 
nor nothin '11 be ready. 

(MARY goes into room left?) 


MRS. BOYLE (arranging table for tea). You 
didn't look at our new gramophone, Johnny? 

JOHNNY. "Tisn't gramophones I'm think- 
ing of. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' what is it you're thinkin' 
of, allanna? 

JOHNNY. Nothin', nothin', nothin'. 

MRS. BOYLE. Sure, you must be thinkin' of 
somethin'; it's yourself that has yourself the 
way y'are; sleepin' wan night in me sisther's, 
an' the nex' in your father's brother's — you'll 
get no rest goin' on that way. 

JOHNNY. I can rest nowhere, nowhere, 

MRS. BOYLE. Sure, you're not thryin' to rest 

JOHNNY. Let me alone, let me alone, let 
me alone, for God's sake. 

(A knock at street door?) 

MRS. BOYLE (in a flutter). Here he is; here's 
Mr. Bentham! 

BOYLE. Well, there's room for him; it's a 
pity there's not a brass band to play him 

MRS. BOYLE. We'll nan' the tea round, an' 
not be clusthered round the table, as if we never 
seen nothin'. 

(Steps are heard approaching, and JUNO, 


opening the door, allows BENTHAM to 

JUNO. Give your hat an' stick to Jack, 
there ... sit down, Mr. Bentham ... no, 
not there ... in th' easy chair be the fire . . . 
there, that's betther. Mary'll be out to you 
in a minute. 

BOYLE (solemnly). I seen be the paper this 
mornin' that Consols was down half per cent. 
That's serious, min' you, an' shows the whole 
counthry's in a state o' chassis. 

MRS. BOYLE. What's Consols, Jack? 

BOYLE. Consols? Oh, Consols is— oh, 
there's no use tellin' women what Consols is 
— th' wouldn't undherstand. 

BENTHAM. It's just as you were saying, Mr. 
Boyle ... 

(MARY enters, charmingly dressed?) 
BENTHAM. Oh, good evening, Mary; how 
pretty you're looking! 
MARY (archly). Am I? 

BOYLE. We were just talkin' when you kem 
in, Mary; I was tellin' Mr. Bentham that the 
whole counthry's in a state o' chassis. 

MARY (to BENTHAM). Would you prefer the 
green or the blue ribbon round me hair, 

MRS. BOYLE. Mary, your father's speakin'. 


BOYLE (rapidly). I was jus' tellin' Mr. 
Bentham that the whole counthry's in a state o' 

MARY. I'm sure you're frettin', da, whether 
it is or no. 

MRS. BOYLE. With all our churches an', 
religions, the worl's not a bit the betther. 

BOYLE (with a commanding gesture). Tay! 
(MARY and MRS, BOYLE dispense the tea.} 

MRS. BOYLE. An' Irelan's takin' a leaf out 
o' the worl's buk; when we got the makin' of 
our own laws I thought we'd never stop to look 
behind us, but instead of that we never stopped 
to look before us 1 If the people ud folley up 
their religion betther there'd be a betther 
chance for us — what do you think, Mr. 

BENTHAM. I'm afraid I can't venture to 
express an opinion on that point, Mrs. Boyle; 
dogma has no attraction for me. 

MRS. BOYLE. I forgot you didn't hold with 
us: what's this you said you were? 

BENTHAM. A Theosophist, Mrs. Boyle. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' what in the name o' God 's 
a Theosophist? 

BOYLE. A Theosophist, Juno, 's a — tell her, 
Mr. Bentham, tell her. 

BENTHAM. It's hard to explain in a few 


words: Theosophy's founded on The Vedas, 
the religious books of the East. It's central 
theme is the existence of an all-pervading Spirit 
— the Life-Breath. Nothing really exists but 
this one Universal Life Breath. And whatever 
even seems to exist separately from this Life- 
Breath, doesn't really exist at all. It is all 
vital force in man, in all animals, and in all 
vegetation. This Life-Breath is called the 

MRS. BOYLE. The Prawnal What a comical 

BOYLE. Prawna; yis, the Prawna. (Blowing 
gently through his lips] That's the Prawna! 

MRS. BOYLE. Whist, whist, Jack. 

BENTHAM. The happiness of man depends 
upon his sympathy with this Spirit. Men 
who have reached a high state of excellence are 
called Yogi. Some men become Yogi in a 
short time, it may take others millions of years. 

BOYLE. Yogil I seen hundhreds of them 
in the streets o' San Francisco. 

BENTHAM. It is said by these Yogi that if 
we practise certain mental exercises that we 
would have powers denied to others — for 
instance, the faculty of seeing things that 
happen miles and miles away. 

MRS. BOYLE. I wouldn't care to meddle with 


that sort o' belief; it's a very curious religion, 

BOYLE. What's curious about it? Isn't all 
religions curious; if they weren't, you wouldn't 
get any one to believe them. But religions 
is passin' away — they've had their day like 
everything else. Take the real Dublin people, 
frinstance: they know more about Charlie 
Chaplin an' Tommy Mix than they do about 
SS. Peter an' Paul! 

MRS. BOYLE. You don't believe in ghosts, 
Mr. Bentham? 

MARY. Don't you know he doesn't, mother? 

BENTHAM. I don't know that, Mary. Scien- 
tists are beginning to think that what we 
call ghosts are sometimes seen by persons of 
a certain nature. They say that sensational 
actions, such as the killing of a person, demands 
great energy, and that that energy lingers in 
the place where the action occurred. People 
may live in the place and see nothing, when 
some one may come along whose personality 
has some peculiar connection with the energy 
of the place, and, in a flash, the person sees the 
whole affair. 

JOHNNY (rising swiftly, pale and affected). 
What sort o' talk is this to be goin' on with? 
Is there nothin' betther to be talkin' about but 


the killin' o' people? My God, isn't it bad 
enough for these things to happen v/ithout 
talkin' about them! (He hurriedly goes into the 
room on left.} 

BENTHAM. Oh, I'm very sorry, Mrs. Boyle; 
I never thought . . . 

MRS. BOYLE (apologetically). Never mind, Mr. 
Bentham, he's very touchy. (A frightened 
scream is heardfrom JOHNNY inside} 

MRS. BOYLE. Mother of God, what's that? 
(He rushes out again, his face pale, his 
lips twitching, his limbs trembling} 

JOHNNY. Shut the door, shut the door, 
quick, for God's sake! Great God, have mercy 
on mel Blessed Mother o' God, shelter me, 
shelther your son! 

MRS. BOYLE (catching him in her arms). What's 
wrong with you? What ails you? Sit down, 
sit down, here, on the bed . . . there now 
. . . there now. 

MARY. Johnny, Johnny, what ails you? 

JOHNNY. I seen him, I seen him . . . 
kneelin' in front o' the statue . . . merciful 
Jesus, have pity on mel 

MRS. BOYLE (to BOYLE). Get him a glass o' 
whisky . . . quick, man, an' don't stand 

(BOYLE gets the whisky} 



JOHNNY. Sit here, sit here, mother , . . 
between me an' the door. 

MRS. BOYLE. I'll sit beside you as long as 
you like, only tell me what was it came across 
you at all? 

JOHNNY (after taking some drink). I seen 
him. ... I seen Robbie Tancred kneelin' 
down before the statue ... an' the red light 
shinin' on him ... an' when I went in 
he turned an' looked at me . . . an' I seen 
the wouns bleedin' in his breast. . . . Oh, why 
did he look at me like that ... it wasn't my 
fault that he was done in. ... Mother o' God, 
keep him away from me! 

MRS. BOYLE. There, there, child, you've 
imagined it all. There was nothin' there at 
all — it was the red light you seen, an' the talk 
we had put all the rest into your head. Here, 
dhrink more o' this — it'll do you good. . . . 
An', now, stretch yourself down on the bed 
for a little. (To BOYLE) Go in, Jack, an' show 
him it was only in his own head it was. 

BOYLE (making no move). E-e-e-e-eh; it's all 
nonsense; it was only a shadda he saw. 

MARY. Mother o' God, he made me heart lep! 

BENTHAM. It was simply due to an over- 
wrought imagination — we all get that way at 



MRS. BOYLE. There, dear, lie down in the 
bed, an' I'll put the quilt across you . , . 
e-e-e-eh, that's it . . . you'll be as right as 
the mail in a few minutes. 

JOHNNY. Mother, go into the room an' see 
if the light's lightin' before the statue. 

MRS. BOYLE (to BOYLE). Jack, run in an' see 
if the light's lightin' before the statue. 

BOYLE (to MARY). Mary, slip in an' see if the 
light's lightin' before the statue. 

(MARY hesitates to go in.) 

BENTHAM. It's all right; Mary, I'll go. 

(He goes into the room; remains for a few 
moments, and returns?) 

BENTHAM. Everything's just as it was — the 
light burning bravely before the statue. 

BOYLE. Of course ; I knew it was all 

(A knock at the door?] 
BOYLE (going to open the door). E-e-e-e-eh. 
(He opens it, and JOXER, followed by MRS. 
a strong, dapper little woman of about 
forty-five; her face is almost always a 
widespread smile of complacency. She 
is a woman who, in manner at least, 
can mourn with them that mourn, and 
rejoice with them that do rejoice. When 


she is feeling comfortable, she is inclined 
to be reminiscent; when others say any- 
thing, orfollowing a statement made by 
herself, she has a habit of -putting her 
head a little to one side, and nodding 
it rapidly several times in succession, 
like a bird pecking at a hard berry. 
Indeed, she has a good deal of the bird 
in her, but the bird instinct is by no 
means a melodious one. She is 
ignorant, vulgar and forward, but her 
heart is generous withal. For instance, 
she would help a neighbour's sick child; 
she would probably kill the child, but 
her intentions would be to cure it; she 
would be more at home helping a dray- 
man to lift a fallen horse. She is 
dressed in a rather soiled grey dress 
and a vivid purple blouse; in her hair 
is a huge comb, ornamented with huge 
coloured beads. She enters with a 
gliding step, beaming smile and nodding 
head. BOYLE receives them effusively,] 
BOYLE. Come on in, Mrs. Madigan; come 

on in; I was afraid you weren't comin'. . . . 

{Slyly] There's some people able to dhress, ay, 


JOXER. Fair as the blossoms that bloom in 


the May, an' sweet as the scent of the new- 
mown hay. . . . Ah, well she may wear 

MRS. MADIGAN (looking at MARY). I know 
some as are as sweet as the blossoms that bloom 
in the May — oh, no names, no pack dhrill 1 

BOYLE. An', now, I'll inthroduce the pair 
o' yous to Mary's intended: Mr. Bentham, 
this is Mrs. Madigan, an oul' back-parlour 
neighbour, that, if she could help it at all, ud 
never see a body shukl 

BENTHAM (rising, and tentatively shaking the 
hand of MRS. MADIGAN). I'm sure, it's a great 
pleasure to know you, Mrs. Madigan. 

MRS. MADIGAN. An' I'm goin' to tell you, 
Mr. Bentham, you're goin' to get as nice a bit 
o' skirt in Mary, there, as ever you seen in 
your puff. Not like some of the dhressed-up 
dolls that's knockin' about lookin' for men 
when it's a skelpin' they want. I remember, 
as well as I remember yestherday, the day she 
was born — of a Tuesday, the 25th o' June, in 
the year 1901, at thirty-three minutes past wan 
in the day be Foley's clock, the pub at the corner 
o' the street. A cowld day it was too, for the 
season o' the year, an' I remember sayin' to 
Joxer, there, who I met comin' up th stairs, 
that the new arrival in Boyle's ud grow up a 


hardy chiselur if it lived, an that she'd be 
somethin' one o' these days that nobody 
suspected, an' so signs on it, here she is to-day, 
goin' to be married to a young man lookin' as 
if he'd be fit to commensurate in any position 
in life it ud please God to call him! 

BOYLE (effusively). Sit down, Mrs. Madigan, 
sit down, me oul' sport. (To BENTHAM) This 
is Joxer Daly, Past Chief Ranger of the Dear 
Little Shamrock Branch of the Irish National 
Foresters, an oul' front-top neighbour, that 
never despaired, even in the darkest days of 
Ireland's sorra. 

JOXER. Nil desperandum, Captain, nil 

BOYLE. Sit down, Joxer, sit down. The 
two of us was ofen in a tight corner. 

MRS. BOYLE. Ay, in Foley's snug! 

JOXER. An 1 we kem out of it flyin', we kem 
out of it flyin', Captain. 

BOYLE. An', now, for a dhrink — I know 
yous won't refuse an oul' friend. 

MRS. MADIGAN (to JUNO). Is Johnny not 
well, Mrs. . . . 

MRS. BOYLE (warningly). S-s-s-sh. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Oh, the poor darlin'. 

BOYLE. Well, Mrs. Madigan, is it tea or 



MRS. MADIGAN. Well, speakin' for meself, 
I jus' had me tea a minute ago, an' I'm afraid 
to dhrink any more — I'm never the same when 
I dhrink too much tay. Thanks, all the same, 
Mr. Boyle. 

BOYLE. Well, what about a bottle o' stout 
or a dhrop o' whisky? 

MRS. MADIGAN. A bottle o' stout ud be a 
little too heavy for me stummock afther me 
tay. . . . A-a-ah, I'll thry the ball o' malt. 

(BOYLE prepares the whisky.} 

MRS. MADIGAN. There's nothin' like a ball 
o' malt occasional like — too much of it isn't 
good. (To BOYLE, who is adding water) Ah, 
God, Johnny, don't put too much wather on 
itl (She drinks.} I suppose yous'll be lavin' 
this place. 

BOYLE. I'm looking for a place near the sea; 
I'd like the place that you might say was me 
cradle, to be me grave as well. The sea is 
always callin' me. 

JOXER. She is callin', callin', callin', in the 
win' an' on the sea. 

BOYLE. Another dhrop o' whisky, Mrs. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Well, now, it ud be hard 
to refuse seein' the suspicious times that's 
in it. 



BOYLE (with a commanding gesture). Song! 
. . , Juno . . . Mary ..." Home to Our 
Mountins " ! 

MRS. MADIGAN (enthusiastically). Hear, hear! 

JOXER. Oh, tha's a darlin' song, a daarlin' 

MARY (bashfully). Ah no, da; I'm not in a 
singin' humour. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Gawn with you, child, an' 
you only goin' to be marrid; I remember as 
well as I remember yestherday, — it was on a 
lovely August evenin', exactly, accordin' to 
date, fifteen years ago, come the Tuesday 
folleyin' the nex' that's comin' on, when me 
own man (the Lord be good to him") an' me was 
sittin' shy together in a doty little nook on a 
counthry road, adjacent to The Stiles. " That'll 
scratch your lovely, little white neck," says he, 
ketchin' hould of a danglin' bramble branch, 
holdin' clusters of the loveliest flowers you ever 
seen, an' breakin' it off, so that his arm fell, 
accidental like, roun' me waist, an' as I felt it 
tightening an' tightening an' tightening I 
thought me buzzum was every minute goin' to 
burst out into a roystherin' song about 

The little green leaves that were shakin' on the 

The gallivantin' buttherflies, an' buzzin' o' the bees! 


BOYLE. Ordher for the song! 
JUNO, Come on, Mary — we'll do our best. 
(JUNO and MARY stand up, and choosing 
a suitable position, sing simply "Home 
to Our Mountains ".) 
(They bow to company, and return to their 

BOYLE (emotionally, at the end of song). Lull 
, . . me ... to ... rest! 

JOXER (clapping his hands). Bravo, bravo 1 
Darlin' girulls, darlin' girulls! 

MRS. MADIGAN. Juno, I never seen you in 
betther form. 

BENTHAM. Very nicely rendered indeed. 
MRS. MADIGAN. A noble call, a noble call! 
MRS. BOYLE. What about yourself, Mrs. 

(After some coaxing, MRS. MADIGAN rises, 
and in a quavering voice sings the 
following verse]: 

If I were a blackbird I'd whistle and sing; 

I'd follow the ship that my thrue love was in; 

An' on the top riggin', I'd there build me nest, 

An' at night I would sleep on me Willie's white breast! 

(Becoming husky, amid applause, she sits 

MRS, MADIGAN. Ah, me voice is too husky 
65 F 


now, Juno; though I remember the time when 
Maisie Madigan could sing like a nightingale 
at matin' time. I remember as well as I 
remember yestherday, at a party given to 
celebrate the comin' of the first chiselur to 
Annie an' Benny Jimeson — who was the barber, 
yous may remember, in Henrietta Street, that, 
afther Easter Week, hung out a green, white 
an' orange pole, an', then, when the Tans 
started their Jazz dancin', whipped it in agen, 
an' stuck out a red, white an' blue wan instead, 
givin' as an excuse that a barber's pole was 
strictly non-political — singin' " An' You'll 
Remember Me ", with the top notes quiverin' 
in a dead hush of pethrified attention, folleyed 
be a clappin' o' hans that shuk the tumblers on 
the table, an' capped be Jimeson, the barber, 
sayin' that it was the best rendherin' of " You'll 
Remember Me " he ever heard in his natural! 

BOYLE (peremptorily). Ordher for Joxer's 

JOXER. Ah no, I couldn't; don't ass me, 

BOYLE. Joxer's song, Joxer's song — give tis 
wan of your shut-eyed wans. (JOXER settles 
himself in his chair; takes a drink; clears his 
throat; solemnly closes his eyes, and begins to sing 
in a very querulous voice): 


She is far from the Ian 1 where her young hero sleeps, 
An' lovers around her are sighing (He hesitates.) 

An' lovers around her are sighin' . . . sighin' . . . 
sighin' . . . (Apause.j 

BOYLE (imitating JOXER) : 

And lovers around her are sighing! 

What's the use of you thryin' to sing the song 
if you don't know it? 

MARY. Thry another one, Mr. Daly — 
maybe you'd be more fortunate. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Gawn, Joxer; thry another 

JOXER (starting again) : 

I have heard the mavis singin' his love song to the morn; 

I have seen the dew-dhrop clingin' to the rose jus' 
newly born; but . . . but . . . (frantically) 
To the rose jus' newly born . . . newly born 
. . . born. 

JOHNNY. Mother, put on the gramophone, 
for God's sake, an' stop Joxer's bawlin'. 

BOYLE (commandingly). Gramophone I . . . 
I hate to see fellas thryin' to do, what they're 
not able to do. 

(BOYLE arranges the gramophone, and is 
about to start it, when voices are heard 
of persons descending the stairs.} 


MRS. BOYLE (warmngly). Whisht, Jack, don't 
put it on, don't put it on yet; this must be 
poor Mrs. Tancred comin' down to go to the 
hospital — I forgot all about them bringin' the 
body to the church to-night. Open the door, 
Mary, an' give them a bit o' light. 

(MARY opens the door, and MRS. TANCRED 
— a very old woman, obviously shaken 
by the death of her son — appears, 
accompanied by several neighbours. The 
first few phrases are spoken before they 

FIRST NEIGHBOUR. It's a sad journey we're 
goin' on, but God's good, an' the Republicans 
won't be always down. 

MRS. TANCRED. Ah, what good is that to 
me now? Whether they're up or down — it 
won't bring me darlin' boy from the grave. 

MRS. BOYLE. Come in an' have a hot cup o' 
tay, Mrs. Tancred, before you go. 

MRS. TANCRED. Ah, I can take nothin' now, 
Mrs. Boyle — I won't be long afther him. 

FIRST NEIGHBOUR. Still an' all, he died a 
noble death, an' we'll bury him like a king, 

MRS. TANCRED. An' I'll go on livin' like a 
pauper. Ah, what's the pains I suffered 
bringin' him into the world to carry him to his 
cradle, to the pains I'm sufferin' now, carryin' 


him out o' the world to bring him to his 

MARY. It would be better for you not to go 
at all, Mrs. Tancred, but to stay at home beside 
the fire with some o' the neighbours. 

MRS. TANCRED. I seen the first of him, an 1 
I'll see the last of him. 

MRS. BOYLE. You'd want a shawl, Mrs. 
Tancred; it's a cowld night, an' the win's 
blowin' sharp. 

MRS. MADIGAN (rushing out). I've a shawl 

MRS. TANCRED. Me home is gone, now; he 
was me only child, an' to think that he was 
lyin' for a whole night stretched out on the 
side of a lonely counthry lane, with his head, 
his darlin' head, that I ofen kissed an' fondled, 
half hidden in the wather of a runnin' brook. 
An' I'm told he was the leadher of the ambush 
where me nex' door neighbour, Mrs. Mannin', 
lost her Free State soldier son. An' now here's 
the two of us oul' women, standin' one on each 
side of a scales o' sorra, balanced be the bodies 
of our two dead darlin' sons. (MRS. MADIGAN 
returns, and wraps a shawl around her. J God 
bless you, Mrs. Madigan. . . . (She moves 
slowly towards the door) Mother o' God, Mother 
o' God, have pity on the pair of usl . . • 


0 Blessed Virgin, where were you when me 
darlin' son was riddled with bullets, when me 
darlin' son was riddled with bullets! . . . 
Sacred Heart of the Crucified Jesus, take away 
our hearts o' stone ... an' give us hearts o' 
flesh! . . . Take away this murdherin' hate 
. . an' give us Thine own eternal love! 

(They pass out of the room.) 
MRS. BOYLE (explanatorily to BENTHAM). That 
was Mrs. Tancred of the two-pair back; her 
son was found, e'er yestherday, lyin' out beyant 
Finglas riddled with bullets. A Die-hard he 
was, be all accounts. He was a nice quiet boy, 
but lattherly he went to hell, with his Republic 
first, an' Republic last an' Republic over all. 
He ofen took tea with us here, in the oul' days, 
an' Johnny, there, an' him used to be always 

JOHNNY. Am I always to be havin' to tell 
you that he was no friend o' mine; I never 
cared for him, an' he could never stick me. 
It's not because he was Commandant of the 
Battalion that I was Quarther-Masther of, that 
we were friends. 

MRS. BOYLE. He's gone now— the Lord be 
good to him! God help his poor oul' creature 
of 51 mother, for no matther whose friend or 
enemy he was, he was her poor son. 



BENTHAM. The whole thing is terrible, Mrs. 
Boyle; but the only way to deal with a mad dog 
is to destroy him. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' to think of me forgettin' 
about him bein' brought to the church to-night, 
an' we singin' an' all, but it was well we hadn't 
the gramophone goin', anyhow. 

BOYLE. Even if we had aself. We've 
nothin' to do with these things, one way or 
t'other. That's the Government's business, 
an' let them do what we're payin' them for 

MRS. BOYLE. I'd like to know how a body's 
not to mind these things; look at the way 
they're afther leavin' the people in this very 
house. Hasn't the whole house, nearly, been 
massacreed? There's young Dougherty's 
husband with his leg off; Mrs. Travers that 
had her son blew up be a mine in Inchegeela, 
in Co. Cork; Mrs. Mannin' that lost wan of 
her sons in an ambush a few weeks ago, an' 
now, poor Mrs. Tancred's only child gone 
West with his body made a collandher of. 
Sure, if it's not our business, I don't know 
whose business it is. 

BOYLE. Here, there, that's enough about 
them things; they don't affect us, an' we 
needn't give a damn. If they want a tfrake, 


well, let them have a wake. When I was a 
sailor, I was always resigned to meet with a 
wathery grave; an', if they want to be soldiers, 
well, there's no use o' them squealin' when 
they meet a soldier's fate. 

JOXER. Let me like a soldier fall— me breast 
expandin' to th' ball! 

MRS. BOYLE. In wan way, she deserves all 
she got; for lately, she let th' Die-hards make 
an open house of th' place; an' for th' last 
couple of months, either when th' sun was 
risin', or when th' sun was settin', you had 
C.I.D. men burstin' into your room, assin' you 
where were you born, where were you 
christened, where were you married, an' where 
would you be buried! 

JOHNNY. For God's sake, let us have no 
more o' this talk. 

MRS. MADIGAN. What about Mr. Boyle's 
song before we start th' gramophone? 

MARY (getting her hat, and -putting it on). 
Mother, Charlie and I are goin' out for a little 

MRS. BOYLE. All right, darlin'. 
- BENTHAM (going out with MARY). We won't 
be long away, Mrs. Boyle. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Gwan, Captain, gwan. 
BOYLE. E-e-e-e-eh, I'd want to have a few 


more jars in me, before I'd be in fettle for 

JOXER. Give us that poem you writ t'other 
day. (To the rest) Aw, it's a darlin' poem, a 
daarlin' poem. 

MRS. BOYLE. God bless us, is he startin' to 
write poetry! 

BOYLE (rising to his feet), E-e-e-e-eh. (He 
recites in an emotional, consequential manner the 
following verses'): 

Shawn an' I were friends, sir, to me he was all in all. 
His work was very heavy and his wages were very small. 
None betther on th' beach as Docker, I'll go bail, 
'Tis now I'm feelin 1 lonely, for to-day he lies injail. 
He was not what some call pious — seldom at church or 

For the greatest scoundrels I know, sir, goes every 
Sunday there. 

Fond of his pint — well, rather, but hated the Boss by 

But never refused a copper to comfort a pal in need. 

E-e-e-e-eh. (He sits down.} 

MRS. MADIGAN. Grand, grand; you should 
folly that up, you should folly that up. 

JOXER. It's a daarlin' poem! 

BOYLE (delightedly). E-e-e-e-eh. 

JOHNNY. Are yous goin' to put on th' 
gramophone to-night, or are yous not? 



MRS. BOYLE. Gwan, Jack, put on a record. 
MRS. MADIGAN. Gwan, Captain, gwan. 
BOYLE. Well, yous'll want to keep a dead 

(He sets a record, starts the machine, and 
it begins to play "If you're Irish, come 
into the Parlour" As the tune is in 
full blare, the door is suddenly opened 
by a brisk, little bald-headed man, 
dressed circumspectly in a black suit; 
he glares fiercely at all in the room; he 
is " NEEDLE NUGENT ", a tailor. He 
carries his hat in his hand.} 
NUGENT (loudly, above the noise of the gramo- 
phone]. Are yous goin' to have that thing 
bawlin' an' the funeral of Mrs. Tancred's son 
passin' the house? Have none of yous any 
respect for the Irish people's National regard 
for the dead? 

(BOYLE stops the gramophone.} 
MRS. BOYLE. Maybe, Needle Nugent, it's 
nearly time we had a little less respect for the 
dead, an' a little more regard for the livin'. 

MRS. MADIGAN. We don't want you, Mr. 
Nugent, to teach us what we learned at our 
mother's knee. You don't look yourself as if 
you were dyin'of grief; if y'ass Maisie Madigan 
anything, I'd call you a real thrue Die-hard an' 


live-soft Republican, attendin' Republican 
funerals in the day, an' stoppin' up half the 
night makin' suits for the Civic Guards! 

(Persons are heard running down to the 
street, some saying, " Here it is, here it 
is. " NUGENT withdraws, and the rest, 
except JOHNNY, go to the window look- 
ing into the street, and look out. Sounds 
of a crowd coming nearer are heard; 
portion are singing): 

To Jesus' Heart all burning 
With fervent love for men, 
My heart with fondest yearning 
Shall raise its joyful strain. 
While ages course along, 
Blest be with loudest song, 
The Sacred Heart of Jesus 
By every heart and tongue. 

MRS. BOYLE. Here's the hearse, here's the 

BOYLE. There's foul' mother walkin' behin' 
the coffin. 

MRS. MADIGAN. You can hardly see the 
coffin with the wreaths. 

JOXER. Oh, it's a darlin' funeral, a daarlin' 

MRS. MADIGAN. We'd have a betther view 
from the street, 



BOYLE. Yes — this place ud give you a crick 
in your neck. 

(They leave the room, and go down. 

JOHNNY sits moodily by the fire.} 
(Ayoung man enters; he looks at JOHNNY 
for a moment.} 
THE YOUNG MAN. Quarther-Masther Boyle. 
JOHNNY (with a start). The Mobilizer! 
THE YOUNG MAN. You're not at the funeral? 
JOHNNY. I'm not well. 
THE YOUNG MAN. I'm glad I've found you; 
you were stoppin' at your aunt's; I called 
there but you'd gone. I've to give you an 
ordher to attend a Battalion Staff meetin' the 
night afther to-morrow. 
JOHNNY. Where? 

THE YOUNG MAN. I don't know; you're to 
meet me at the Pillar at eight o'clock; then 
we're to go to a place I'll be told of to-night; 
there we'll meet a mother that'll bring us to 
the meeting. They think you might be able 
to know somethin' about them that gave 
the bend where Commandant Tancred was 

JOHNNY. I'm not goin', then. I know 
nothing about Tancred. 

THE YOUNG MAN (at the door). You'd betther 
come for your own sake — remember your oath. 


JOHNNY (passionately). I won't go! Haven't 
I done enough for Ireland! I've lost me arm, 
an' me hip's desthroyed so that I'll never be 
able to walk right agen! Good God, haven't 
I done enough for Ireland? 

THE YOUNG MAN. Boyle, no man can do 
enough for Ireland! (He goes.} 

(Faintly in the distance the crowd is heard 

Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee; 
Blessed art Thou amongst women, and blessed, etc 



SCENE : The same as Act II. It is about half- 
past six on a November evening; a bright 
fire is burning in the grate; MARY, dressed to 

go out, is sitting on a chair by the fire, leaning 
forward, her hands under her chin, her 

elbows on her knees. A look of dejection, 

mingled with uncertain anxiety , is on her face. 

A lamp) turned low, is lighting on the table. 

The votive light under the picture of the 

Virgin gleams more redly than ever. MRS. 

BOYLE is putting on her hat and coat. It is 

two months later. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' has Bentham never even 
written to you since — not one line for the past 

MARY (tonelessly). Not even a line, mother. 

MRS. BOYLE. That's very curious. . . . What 
came between the two of yous at all? To 
leave you so sudden, an' yous so great together. 



... To go away t' England, an' not to even 
leave you his address. . . . The way he was 
always bringin' you to dances, I thought he 
was mad afther you. Are you sure you said 
nothin' to him? 

MARY, No, mother — at least nothing that 
could possibly explain his givin' me up. 

MRS. BOYLE. You know you're a bit hasty 
at times, Mary, an' say things you shouldn't 

MARY. I never said to him what I shouldn't 
say, I'm sure of that. 

MRS. BOYLE. How are you sure of it? 

MARY. Because I love him with all my heart 
and soul, mother. Why, I don't know; I 
often thought to myself that he wasn't the man 
poor Jerry was, but I couldn't help loving him, 
all the same. 

MRS. BOYLE. But you shouldn't be frettin' 
the way you are; when a woman loses a man, 
she never knows what she's afther losin', to 
be sure, but, then, she never knows what she's 
afther gainin', either. You're not the one girl 
of a month ago — you look like one pinin' away. 
It's long ago I had a right to bring you to the 
doctor, instead of waitin' till to-night. 

MARY. There's no necessity, really, mother, 
to go to the doctor; nothing serious is wrong 



with me — I'm run down and disappointed, 
that's all. 

MRS. BOYLE. I'll not wait another minute; 
I don't like the look of you at all. . . . I'm 
afraid we made a mistake in throwin' over poor 
Jerry. . . . He'd have been betther for you 
than that Bentham. 

MARY. Mother, the best man for a woman 
is the one for whom she has the most love, and 
Charlie had it all. 

MRS. BOYLE. Well, there's one thing to be 
said for him — he couldn't have been thinkin' 
of the money, or he wouldn't ha' left you . . . 
it must ha' been somethin' else. 

MARY (wearily). I don't know ... I don't 
know, mother . . . only I think . 

MRS. BOYLE. What d'ye think? 

MARY. I imagine ... he thought . . . we 
weren't . . . good enough for him. 

MRS. BOYLE. An' what was he himself, only 
a school teacher? Though I don't blame him 
for fightin' shy of people like that Joxer fella 
an' that ouT Madigan wan — nice sort o' people 
for your father to inthroduce to a man like 
Mr. Bentham. You might have told me all 
about this before now, Mary; I don't know 
why you like to hide everything from your 
mother; you knew Bentham, an' I'd ha' known 


nothin' about it if it hadn't bin for the Will; 
an' it was only to-day, afther long coaxin', that 
you let out that he'd left you. 

MARY. It would have been useless to tell 
you — you wouldn't understand. 

MRS. BOYLE (hurt). Maybe not. . . . Maybe 
I wouldn't understand. . . . Well, we'll be 
off now. 

(She goes over to door /eft, and speaks to 
BOYLE inside?) 

MRS. BOYLE. We're goin' now to the doctor's. 
Are you goin' to get up this evenin'? 

BOYLE (from inside). The pains in me legs 
is terrible! It's me should be poppin' off to 
the doctor instead o' Mary, the way I feel. 

MRS. BOYLE. Sorra mend you! A nice way 
you were in last night — carried in in a frog's 
march, dead to the world. If that's the way 
you'll go on when you get the money it'll be 
the grave for you, an asylum for me and the 
Poorhouse for Johnny. 

BOYLE. I thought you were goin'? 

MRS. BOYLE. That's what has you as you 
are — you can't bear to be spoken to. Knowin' 
the way we are, up to our ears in debt, it's a 
wondher you wouldn't ha' got up to go to th 
solicitor's an' see if we could ha' gotten a little 
o' the money even. 

81 o 


BOYLE (shouting). I can't be goin' up there 
night, noon an' mornin', can I? He can't give 
the money till he gets it, can he? I can't get 
blood out of a turnip, can I? 

MRS. BOYLE. It's nearly two months since 
we heard of the Will, an' the money seems as 
far off as ever. ... I suppose you know we 
owe twenty pouns to oul' Murphy? 

BOYLE. I've a faint recollection of you tellin' 
me that before. 

MRS. BOYLE. Well, you'll go over to the shop 
yourself for the things in future — I'll face him 
no more. 

BOYLE. I thought you said you were goin'? 

MRS. BOYLE. I'm goin' now; come on, Mary. 

BOYLE. Ey, Juno, ey! 

MRS. BOYLE. Well, what d'ye want now? 

BOYLE. Is there e'er a bottle o' stout left? 

MRS. BOYLE, There's two o' them here still. 

BOYLE. Show us in one o' them an' leave 
t'other there till I get up. An' throw us in 
the paper that's on the table, an' the bottle o' 
Sloan's Liniment that's in th' drawer. 

MRS. BOYLE (getting the liniment and the stout). 
What paper is it you want — the Messenger"} 

BOYLE. Messenger! The News o' the World! 
(MRS. BOYLE brings in the things askedfor 
and comes out again.) 


MRS. BOYLE (at door). Mind the candle, now, 
an' don't burn the house over our heads. I 
left t'other bottle o' stout on the table. 

(She puts bottle of stout on table. She goes 
out with MARY. A cork is heard 
popping inside.} 
(A pause; then outside the door is heard 
the voice of JOXER lilting softly: " Me 
pipe I'll smoke, as I dhrive me moke 
. . . are you . . . there . . . More 
. . . aar .,./... tee!" A gentle 
knock is heard and, after a pause, the 
door opens, and JOXER, followed by 
NUGENT, enters.} 
JOXER. Be God, they must be all out; I was 
thinkin' there was somethin' up when he didn't 
answer the signal. We seen Juno an' Mary 
goin', but I didn't see him, an' it's very seldom 
he escapes me. 

NUGENT. He's not goin' to escape me — he's 
not goin' to be let go to the fair altogether. 

JOXER. Sure, the house couldn't hould them 
lately; an' he goin' about like a mastherpiece 
of the Free State counthry; forgettin' their 
friends; forgettin' God — wouldn't even lift 
his hat passin' a chapel ! Sure they were 
bound to get a dhropl An' you really think 
there's no money comin' to him afther all? 


NUGENT. Not as much as a red rex, man; 
I've been a bit anxious this long time over me 
money, an' I went up to the solicitor's to find 
out all I could — ah, man, they were goin' to 
throw me down the stairs. They toul' me 
that the oul' cock himself had the stairs worn 
away comin' up afther it, an' they black in the 
face tellin' him he'd get nothin'. Some way 
or another that the Will is writ he won't be 
entitled to get as much as a make! 

JOXER. Ah, I thought there was somethin' 
curious about the whole thing; I've bin havin' 
sthrange dhreams for the last couple o' weeks. 
An' I notice that that Bentham fella doesn't be 
comin' here now — there must be somethin' on 
the mat there too. Anyhow, who, in the name 
o' God, ud leave anythin' to that oul' bummer? 
Sure it ud be unnatural. An' the way Juno 
an' him's been throwin' their weight about for 
the last few months! Ah, him that goes a 
borrowin' goes a sorrowin' ! 

NUGENT. Well, he's not goin' to throw 
his weight about in the suit I made for him 
much longer. I'm tellin' you seven pouns 
aren't to be found growin' on the bushes these 

JOXER. An' there isn't hardly a neighbour 
in the whole street that hasn't lent him money 


on the strength of what he was goin' to get, 
but they're after backing the wrong horse. 
Wasn't it a mercy o' God that I'd nothin' to 
give him! The softy I am, you know, I'd ha' 
lent him me last juice! I must have had some- 
body's good prayers. Ah, afther all, an honest 
man's the noblest work o' God! 

(BOYLE coughs inside.) 
JOXER. Whisht, damn it, he must be inside 
in bed. 

NUGENT. Inside o' bed or outside of it 
he's goin' to pay me for that suit, or give it 
back — he'll not climb up my back as easily 
as he thinks. 

JOXER. Gwan in at wanst, man, an' get it 
off him, an' don't be a fool. 

NUGENT (going to door left, opening it and look- 
ing in). Ah, don't disturb yourself, Mr. Boyle; 
I hope you're not sick? 

BOYLE. Th' oul' legs, Mr. Nugent, the ouT 

NUGENT. I just called over to see if you 
could let me have anything off the suit? 

BOYLE. E-e-e-eh, how much is this it is? 

NUGENT. It's the same as it was at the start 
— seven pouns. 

BOYLE. I'm glad you kern, Mr. Nugent; I 
want a good heavy tap-coat — Irish frieze, if 


you have it. How much would a top-coat 
like that be, now? 

NUGENT. About six pouns. 

BOYLE. Six pouns — six an' seven, six an' 
seven is thirteen — that'll be thirteen pouns I'll 
owe you. 

(JOXER slips the bottle of stout that is on 
the table into his pocket. NUGENT 
rushes into the room, and returns with 
suit on his arm; he pauses at the door.} 
NUGENT. You'll owe me no thirteen pouns. 
Maybe you think you're betther able to owe 
it than pay it 1 

BOYLE (frantically). Here, come back to hell 
ower that — where're you goin' with them 
clothes o' mine? 

NUGENT. Where am I goin' with them 
clothes o' yours? Well, I like your damn cheek ! 

BOYLE. Here, what am I goin' to dhress 
meself in when I'm goin' out? 

NUGENT. What do I care what you dhress 
yourself in! You can put yourself in a bolsther 
cover, if you like. 

(He goes towards the other door, followed 
by JOXER.) 

JOXER. What'll he dhress himself inl 
Gentleman Jack an' his frieze coat! 

(They go out.} 



BOYLE (inside). Ey, Nugent; ey, Mr, 
Nugent, Mr. Nugent! 

(After a pause BOYLE enters hastily, 
buttoning the braces of his moleskin 
trousers; his coat and vest are on his 
arm; he throws these on a chair and 
hurries to the door on right?) 
BOYLE. Ey, Mr. Nugent, Mr. Nugent! 
JOXER (meeting him at the door). What's up, 
what's wrong, Captain? 

BOYLE. Nugent' s been here an' took away 
me suit — the only things I had to go out in! 

JOXER. Tuk your suit — for God's sake! 
An' what were you doin' while he was takin' 

BOYLE. I was in bed when he stole in like 
a thief in the night, an' before I knew even 
what he was thinkin' of, he whipped them from 
the chair, an' was off like a redshank! 

JOXER. An' what, in the name o' God, did 
he do that for? 

BOYLE. What did he do it for? How the 
hell do I know what he done it for? — jealousy 
an' spite, I suppose. 

JOXER. Did he not say what he done it for? 

BOYLE. Amn't I afther tellin' you that he 
had them whipped up an' was gone before I 
could open me mouth? 



JOXER. That was a very sudden thing to 
do; there mus' be somethin' behin' it. Did 
he hear anything I wondher? 

BOYLE. Did he hear any thin'? — you talk very 
queer, Joxer — what could he hear? 

JOXER. About you not gettin' the money, 
in some way or t'other? 

BOYLE. An' what ud prevent me from gettin' 
th money? 

JOXER. That's jus' what I was thinkin' — 
what ud prevent you from gettin' the money — 
no thin', as far as I can see. 

BOYLE (looking round for bottle of stout, with 
an exclamation). Aw, holy Godl 

JOXER. What's up, Jack? 

BOYLE. He must have afther lifted the 
bottle o' stout that Juno left on the table! 

JOXER (horrified}. Ah no, ah no; he 
wouldn't be afther doin' that now. 

BOYLE. An' who done it then? Juno left 
a bottle o' stout here, an' it's gone — it didn't 
walk, did it? 

JOXER. Oh, that's shockin'; ah, man's 
inhumanity to man makes countless thousands 

MRS. MADIGAN (appearing at the door). I 
hope I'm not disturbin' you in any discussion 
on your forthcomin' legacy — if I may use the 



word — an' that you'll let me have a barny for 
a minute or two with you, Mr. Boyle. 

BOYLE (uneasily). To be sure, Mrs. Madigan 
— an oul' friend's always welcome. 

JOXER. Come in the evening come in th' 
mornin'; come when you're assed, or come 
without warning Mrs. Madigan. 

BOYLE. Sit down, Mrs. Madigan. 

MRS. MADIGAN (ominously). Th' few words 
I have to say can be said standin'. Puttin' 
aside all formularies, I suppose you remember 
me lendin' you some time ago three pouns 
that I raised on blankets an' furniture in me 

BOYLE. I remember it well. I have it 
recorded in me book — three pouns five shillins 
from Maisie Madigan, raised on articles 
pawned; an', item: fourpence, given to make 
up the price of a pint, on th' principle that no 
bird ever flew on wan wing; all to be repaid 
at par, when the ship comes home. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Well, ever since I shoved 
in the blankets I've been perishing with th' 
cowld, an' I've decided, if I'll be too hot in 
th' nex' world aself, I'm not goin' to be too 
cowld in this wan; an' consequently, I want 
me three pouns, if you please. 

BOYLE. This is a very sudden demand, Mrs. 


Madigan, an' can't be met; but I'm willin' to 
give you a receipt in full, in full. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Come on, out with th' 
money, an' don't be jack-actin'. 

BOYLE. You can't get blood out of a turnip, 
can you? 

MRS. MADIGAN (rushing over and shaking him). 
Gimme me money, y'oul' reprobate, or I'll 
shake the worth of it out of you! 

BOYLE. Ey, houl' on, there; houl' on, there 1 
You'll wait for your money now, me lassie! 

MRS. MADIGAN (looking around the room and 
seeing the gramophone). I'll wait for it, will I? 
Well, I'll not wait long; if I can't get th' cash, 
I'll get th' worth of it. 

(She catches up the gramophone,) 

BOYLE. Ey, ey, there, wher'r you goin' with 

MRS. MADIGAN. I'm goin' to th' pawn to 
get me three quid five shillins; Til brin' you 
th' ticket, an' then you can do what you like, 
me bucko. 

BOYLE. You can't touch that, you can't 
touch thatl It's not my property, an' it's not 
ped for yetl 

MRS. MADIGAN. So much th' betther. It'll 
be an ayse to me conscience, for I'm takin' 
what doesn't belong to you. You're not goin' 


to be swankin' it like a paycock with Maisie 
Madigan's money — I'll pull some o' th' 
gorgeous feathers out o' your tail! 

(She goes off with the gramophone.} 

BOYLE. What's th' world comin' to at all? 
I ass you, Joxer Daly, is there any morality 
left anywhere? 

JOXER. I wouldn't ha' believed it, only I 
seen it with me own two eyes. I didn't think 
Maisie Madigan was that sort of a woman; 
she has either a sup taken, or she's heard 

BOYLE. Heard somethin' — about what, if 
it's not any harm to ass you? 

JOXER. She must ha' heard some rumour 
or other that you weren't goin' to get th' money. 

BOYLE. Who says I'm not goin' to get th' 

JOXER. Sure, I know — I was only sayin'. 
BOYLE. Only sayin' what? 
JOXER. Nothin'. 

BOYLE. You were goin' to say somethin', 
don't be a twisther. 

JOXER {angrily). Who's a twisther? 

BOYLE. Why don't you speak your mind, 

JOXER. You never twisted yourself — no, 
you wouldn't know howl 


BOYLE. Did you ever know me to twist; did 
you ever know me to twist? 

JOXER (fiercely). Did you ever do anythin' 
else ! Sure, you can't believe a word that comes 
out o' your mouth, 

BOYLE. Here, get out, ower o'this; I always 
knew you were a prognosticator an' a pro- 

JOXER (going out as JOHNNY comes in). The 
anchor's weighed, farewell, ree . . . mem . . . 
her . . . me. Jacky Boyle, Esquire, infernal 
rogue an' damned liar! 

JOHNNY. Joxer an' you at it agenr — when 
are you goin' to have a little respect for your- 
self, an' not be always makin' a show of us 

BOYLE. Are you goin' to lecture me now? 
JOHNNY. Is mother back from the doctor 
yet, with Mary? 

(MRS. BOYLE enters; it is apparent from 
the serious look on her face that some- 
thing has happened. She takes off her 
hat and coat without a word and puts 
them by. She then sits down near the 
fire, and there is a few moments' pause.} 
BOYLE. Well, what did the doctor say about 

MRS. BOYLE (in an earnest manner and 


with suppressed agitation). Sit down here, Jack; 
I've something to say to you . . , about 

BOYLE (awed by her manner]. About . . , 

MRS. BOYLE. Close that door there and sit 
down here. 

BOYLE (closing the door). More throuble in 
our native land, is it? (He sits down) Well, 
what is it? 

MRS. BOYLE. It's about Mary. 

BOYLE. Well, what about Mary — there's 
nothin' wrong with her, is there? 

MRS. BOYLE. I'm sorry to say there's a gradle 
wrong with her. 

BOYLE. A gradle wrong with her! (Peevishly) 
First Johnny an' now Mary; is the whole 
house goin' to become an hospital! It's not 
consumption, is it? 

MRS. BOYLE. No . . . it's not consumption 
. . . it's worse. 

JOHNNY. Worse! Well, we'll have to get 
her into some place ower this, there's no one 
here to mind her. 

MRS. BOYLE. We'll all have to mind her now. 
You might as well know now, Johnny, as 
another time. (To BOYLE) D'ye know what the 
doctor said to me about her, Jack? 



BOYLE. How ud I know — I wasn't there, 
was I? 

MRS. BOYLE. He told me to get her married 
at wanst. 

BOYLE. Married at wanst! An' why did 
he say the like o' that? 

MRS. BOYLE. Because Mary's goin' to have 
a baby in a short time. 

BOYLE. Goin' to have a baby! — my God, 
what'll Bentham say when he hears that? 

MRS. BOYLE. Are you blind, man, that you 
can't see that it was Bentham that has done this 
wrong to her?, 

BOYLE (passionately). Then he'll marry her, 
he'll have to marry her! 

MRS. BOYLE. You know he's gone to 
England, an' God knows where he is now. 

BOYLE. I'll folly him, I'll folly him, an' bring 
him back, an' make him do her justice. The 
scoundrel, I might ha' known what he was, 
with his yogees an' his prawnal 

MRS. BOYLE. We'll have to keep it quiet 
till we see what we can do. 

BOYLE. Oh, isn't this a nice thing to come 
on top o' me, an' the state I'm in! A pretty 
show I'll be to Joxer an' to that oul' wan, 
Madigan! Amn't I afther goin' through 
enough without havin' to go through thisl 


MRS. BOYLE. What you an' I'll have to go 
through'll be nothin' to what poor Mary'll 
have to go through; for you an' me is middlin' 
old, an' most of our years is spent; but Mary'll 
have maybe forty years to face an' handle, an' 
every wan of them'II be tainted with a bitther 

BOYLE. Where is she? Where is she till I 
tell her off? I'm tellin' you when I'm done 
with her she'll be a sorry girl ! 

MRS. BOYLE. I left her in me sisther's till 
I came to speak to you. You'll say nothin' 
to her, Jack; ever since she left school she's 
earned her livin', an' your fatherly care never 
throubled the poor girl. 

BOYLE. Gwan, take her part agen her father! 
But I'll let you see whether Til say nothin' to 
her or no! Her an' her readin'! That's 
more o' th' blasted nonsense that has the house 
fallin' down on top of us! What did th' likes 
of her, born in a tenement house, want with 
readin'? Her readin's afther bringin' her 
to a nice pass — oh, it's madnin', madnin', 
madnin' ! 

MRS. BOYLE. When she comes back say 
nothin' to her, Jack, or she'll leave this place. 

BOYLE. Leave this place! Ay, she'll leave 
this place, an' quick too! 



MRS. BOYLE. If Mary goes, I'll go with 

BOYLE. Well, go with her! Well, go, th 
pair o' yous! I lived before I seen yous, an' 
I can live when yous are gone. Isn't this a 
nice thing to come rollin' in on top o' me afther 
all your prayin' to St. Anthony an' The Little 
Flower. An' she's a child o' Mary, too — I 
wonder what'll the nuns think of her now? 
An' it'll be bellows'd all over th' disthrict 
before you could say Jack Robinson; an' when- 
ever I'm seen they'll whisper, " That's th' father 
of Mary Boyle that had th' kid be th' swank 
she used to go with; d'ye know, d'ye know?" 
To be sure they'll know — more about it than 
I will meself ! 

JOHNNY. She should be dhriven out o' th' 
house she's brought disgrace on! 

MRS. BOYLE. Hush, you, Johnny. We 
needn't let it be bellows'd all over the place; 
all we've got to do is to leave this place quietly 
an' go somewhere where we're not known, an' 
nobody'll be th' wiser. 

BOYLE. You're talkin' like a two-year-oul', 
woman. Where'll we get a place ou' o' this? — 
places aren't that easily got. 

MRS. BOYLE. But, Jack, when we get the 
money . . . 



BOYLE. Money — what money? 
MRS. BOYLE. Why, ouT Ellison's money, of 

BOYLE. There's no money comin' from oul' 
Ellison, or any one else. Since youVe heard 
of wan throuble, you might as well hear of 
another. There's no money comin' to us at 
all — the Will's a wash out! 

MRS. BOYLE. What are you sayin', man — 
no money? 

JOHNNY. How could it be a wash out? 

BOYLE. The boyo that's afther doin' it to 
Mary done it to me as well. The thick made 
out the Will wrong; he said in th Will, only 
first cousin an' second cousin, instead of 
mentionin' our names, an' now any one that 
thinks he's a first cousin or second cousin 
t'oul' Ellison can claim the money as well as 
me, an' they're springin' up in hundreds, an' 
comin' from America an' Australia, thinkin' 
to get their whack out of it, while all the time 
the lawyers is gobblin' it up, till there's not as 
much as ud buy a stockin' for your lovely 
daughter's baby! 

MRS. BOYLE. I don't believe it, I don't 
believe it, I don't believe it! 

JOHNNY. Why did you say nothin' about 
this before? 




MRS. BOYLE. You're not serious, Jack; 
-you're not serious! 

BOYLE, I'm tellin' you the scholar, Bentham, 
made a banjax o' th' Will; instead o' sayin', 
" th' rest o' me property to be divided between 
me first cousin, Jack Boyle, an' me second 
cousin, Mick Finnegan, o' Santhry ", he writ 
down only, " me first an' second cousins ", an' 
the world an' his wife are afther th' property now. 

MRS. BOYLE. Now, I know why Bentham 
left poor Mary in th' lurch; I can see it all 
now — oh, is there not even a middlin' honest 
man left in th' world? 

JOHNNY (to BOYLE). An' you let us run into 
debt, an' you borreyed money from everybody 
to fill yourself with beer! An' now, you tell 
us the whole thing's a wash out! Oh, if it's 
thrue, I'm done with you, for you're worse 
than me sisther Mary! 

BOYLE. You hole your tongue, d'ye hear? 
I'll not take any lip from you. Go an' get 
Bentham if you want satisfaction for all that's 
afther happenin' us. 

JOHNNY. I won't hole me tongue, I won't 
hole me tongue! I'll tell you what I think 
of you, father an' all as you are ... you , . . 

MRS. BOYLE. Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, for 
God's sake, be quiet! 



JOHNNY. I'll not be quiet, I'll not be quiet; 
he's a nice father, isn't he? Is it any wondher 
Mary went asthray, when . . . 

MRS. BOYLE. Johnny, Johnny, for my sake 
be quiet — for your mother's sake 1 

BOYLE. I'm goin' out now to have a few 
dhrinks with th last few makes I have, an' tell 
that lassie o' yours not to be here when I come 
back; for if I lay me eyes on her, I'll lay me 
hans on her, an' if I lay me hans on her, I 
won't be accountable for me actions! 

JOHNNY. Take care somebody doesn't lay 
his hans on you — y'oul' . . . 

MRS. BOYLE. Johnny, Johnny ! 

BOYLE (at door, about to go out). Oh, a nice 
son, an' a nicer daughter, I have.- (Calling 
loudly upstairs) Joxer, Joxer, are you there? 

JOXER (from a distance). I'm here, More . . . 
ee . . . aar ... i ... tee! 

BOYLE. I'm goin' down to Foley's — are you 

JOXER. Come with you? With that sweet 
call me heart is stirred; I'm only waiting for 
the word, an' I'll be with you, like a birdl 

(BOYLE and JOXER pass the door going out.} 
JOHNNY (throwing himself on the bed). I've 
a nice sisther, an' a nice father, there's no 
bettin' on it. I wish to God a bullet or a bomb 



had whipped me ou' o' this long ago! Not 
one o' yous, not one o' yous, have any thought 
for me! 

MRS. BOYLE (with passionate remonstrance). If 
you don't whisht, Johnny, you'll drive me mad. 
Who has kep th home together for the past 
few years — only me. An' who'll have to bear 
th' biggest part o' this throuble but me — 
but whinin' an' whingin' isn't goin' to do any 

JOHNNY. You're to blame yourself for a 
gradle of it — givin' him his own way in every- 
thing, an' never assin' to check him, no matther 
what he done. Why didn't you look afther 
th' money? why . . . 

(There is a knock at the door; MRS. BOYLE 
opens it; JOHNNY rises on his elbow to 
look and listen; two men enter.} 
FIRST MAN. We've been sent up be th' 
Manager of the Hibernian Furnishing Co., 
Mrs. Boyle, to take back the furniture that 
was got a while ago. 

MRS. BOYLE. Yous'll touch nothin' here— 
how do I know who yous are? 

FIRST MAN (showing a paper). There's the 
ordher, ma'am. (Reading) A chest o' drawers, 
a table, wan easy an' two ordinary chairs; wan 
mirror; wan chestherfield divan, an' a wardrobe 


an' two vases. (To his comrade) Come on, 
Bill, it's afther knockin' off time already. 

JOHNNY. For God's sake, mother, run down 
to Foley's an' bring father back, or we'll be 
left without a stick. 

(The men carry out the table.} 

MRS. BOYLE. What good would it be— you 
heard what he said before he went out. 

JOHNNY. Can't you thry; he ought to be 
here, an' the like of this goin' on. 

(MRS. BOYLE puts a shawl around her, as 
MARY enters.) 

MARY. What's up, mother? I met men 
carryin' away the table, an' everybody's talking 
about us not gettin' the money after all. 

MRS. BOYLE. Everythin's gone wrong, Mary, 
everythin'. We're not gettin' a penny out o' 
the Will, not a penny — I'll tell you all when I 
come back; I'm goin' for your father. (She 
runs out} 

JOHNNY (to MARY, who has sat down by the 
fire). It's a wondher you're not ashamed to 
show your face here, afther what has happened. 
(JERRY enters slowly; there is a look of 
earnest hope on his face. He looks at 
MARY for a few moments.} 
JERRY (softly}. Maryl 

(MARY does not answer.} 


JERRY. Mary, I want to speak to you for 
a few moments, may I? 

(MARY remains silent; JOHNNY goes 
slowly into room on left.} 

JERRY. Your mother has told me every- 
thing, Mary, and I have come to you. ... I 
have come to tell you, Mary, that my love for 
you is greater and deeper than ever. . . . 

MARY (with a sob}. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, say no 
more; all that is over now; anything like that 
is impossible nowl 

JERRY. Impossible? Why do you talk like 
that, Mary? 

MARY. After all that has happened. 

JERRY. What does it matter what has 
happened? We are young enough to be able 
to forget all those things. (He catches her hand) 
Mary, Mary, I am pleading for your love. 
With Labour, Mary, humanity is above every- 
thing; we are the Leaders in the fight for a 
new life. I want to forget Bentham, I want to 
forget that you left me — even for a while. 

MARY. Oh, Jerry, Jerry, you haven't the 
bitter word of scorn for me after all. 

JERRY (passionately). Scorn 1 I love you, 
love you, Mary! 

MARY (rising, and looking him in the eyes). 
Even though 



JERRY. Even though you threw me over for 
another man; even though you gave me many 
a bitter word! 

MARY. Yes, yes, I know; but you love me, 
even though . . . even though . . . I'm . . . 
goin' . . . goin' . . . (He looks at her questioning,, 
andjear gathers in his eyes?) Ah, I was thinkin' 
so. ... You don't know everything! 

JERRY (poignantly]. Surely to God, Mary, 
you don't mean that . . . that . . . that . . . 

MARY. Now you know all, Jerry; now you 
know all! 

JERRY. My God, Mary, have you fallen as 
low as that? 

MARY. Yes, Jerry, as you say, I have fallen 
as low as that. 

JERRY. I didn't mean it that way, Mary . . . 
it came on me so sudden, that I didn't mind 
what I was sayin'. ... I never expected this 
— you're mother never told me. . . . I'm 
sorry . . . God knows, I'm sorry for you, 

MARY. Let us say no more, Jerry; I don't 
blame you for thinkin' it's terrible. ... I 
suppose it is. ... Everybody'll think the 
same . . . it's only as I expected — your 
humanity is just as narrow as the humanity of 
the others. 



JERRY. I'm sorry, all the same. ... I 
shouldn't have troubled you. ... I wouldn't 
if I'd known. ... If I can do anything for 
you , . . Mary ... I will. (He turns to go, 
and halts at the door?) 

MARY. Do you remember, Jerry, the verses 
you read when you gave the lecture in the 
Socialist Rooms some time ago, on Humanity's 
Strife with Nature? 

JERRY. The verses — no; I don't remember 

MARY. I do. They're runnin' in me head 
now — 

An' we felt the power that fashion'd 
All the lovely things we saw, 
That created all the murmur 
Of an everlasting law, 
Was a hand of force an' beauty, 
With an eagle's tearin' claw. 

Then we saw our globe of beauty 
Was an ugly thing as well, 
A hymn divine whose chorus 
Was an agonizin' yell; 
Like the story of a demon, 
That an angel had to tell; 

Like a glowin' picture by a 
Hand unsteady, brought to ruin; 


Like her craters, if their deadness 
Could give life unto the moonj 
Like the agonizing horror 
Of a violin out of tune. 

(There is a pause, and DEVINE goes slowly 

JOHNNY (returning). Is he gone? 
MARY. Yes. 

(The two men re-enter.} 
FIRST MAN. We can't wait any longer for 
t'oul' fella — sorry, Miss, but we have to live 
as well as th' nex' man. 

(They carry out some things} 
JOHNNY. Oh, isn't this terrible! ... I 
suppose you told him everything . . . couldn't 
you have waited for a few days . . . he'd have 
stopped th' takin' of the things, if you'd kep 
your mouth shut. Are you burnin' to tell 
every one of the shame you've brought on us? 

MARY (snatching up her hat and coat). Oh, 
this is unbearable! (She rushes out} 

FIRST MAN (re-entering). We'll take the chest 
o' drawers next — it's the heaviest. 

(The votive light flickers for a moment, 
and goes out] 
JOHNNY (in a cry of fear}. Mother o' God, 
the light's afther goin' out! 

FIRST MAN. You put the win 1 up me the 


way you bawled that time. The oil's all gone, 
that's all. 

JOHNNY (with an agonizing cry). Mother o' 
God, there's a shot I'm afther gettin'l 

FIRST MAN. What's wrong with you, man? 
Is it a fit you're takin'? 

JOHNNY. I'm afther feelin' a pain in me 
breast, like the tearin' by of a bullet! 

FIRST MAN. He's goin' mad — it's a wondher 
they'd leave a chap like that here be himself. 

(Two IRREGULARS enter swiftly; they carry 
revolvers; one goes over to JOHNNY; 
the other covers the two furniture men?) 

FIRST IRREGULAR {to the men, quietly and 
incisively). Who are you — what are yous doin' 
here — quick ! 

FIRST MAN. Removin' furniture that's not 
paid for. 

IRREGULAR. Get over to the other end of the 
room an' turn your faces to the wall — quick. 

(The two men turn theirfaces to the wall, 
with their hands up.) 


Sean Boyle, you're wanted; some of us have 
a word to say to you. 

JOHNNY. I'm sick, I can't— what do you 
want with me? 

SECOND IRREGULAR. Come on, come on; 


we've a distance to go, an' haven't much time 
— come on. 

JOHNNY. I'm an oul' comrade — yous 
wouldn't shoot an oul' comrade. 

SECOND IRREGULAR. Poor Tancred was an 
oul' comrade o' yours, but you didn't think o' 
that when you gave him away to the gang that 
sent him to his grave. But we've no time to 
waste; come on — here, Dermot, ketch his 
arm. (To JOHNNY) Have you your beads? 

JOHNNY. Me beads! Why do you ass me 
that, why do you ass me that? 

SECOND IRREGULAR. Go on, go on, march 1 
JOHNNY. Are yous goin' to do in a comrade 
— look at me arm, I lost it for Ireland. 

SECOND IRREGULAR. Commandant Tancred 
lost his life for Ireland. 

JOHNNY. Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy 
on me! Mother o' God pray for me — be with 
me now in the agonies o'death 1 . . . Hail, Mary, 
full o' grace ... the Lord is ... with Thee. 

(They drag out JOHNNY BOYLE, and the 
curtain falls. When it rises again the 
most of the furniture is gone. MARY 
and MRS. BOYLE, one on each side, are 
sitting in a darkened room, by the fire; 
tt is an hour later?) 
MRS. BOYLE. I'll not wait much longer . . ' 


what did they bring him away in the mothor 
for? Nugent says he thinks they had guns 
... is me throubles never goin' to be over? 
... If anything ud happen to poor Johnny, 
I think I'd lose me mind. . . . I'll go to the 
Police Station, surely they ought to be able to 
do somethin'. 

(Below is heard the sound of voices. ") 

MRS. BOYLE. Whisht, is that something? 
Maybe, it's your father, though when I left 
him in Foley's he was hardly able to lift his 
head. Whisht! 

(A knock at the door, and the 'voice of 
MRS. MADIGAN, speaking very softly}: 
Mrs. Boyle, Mrs. Boyle. 

(MRS. BOYLE opens the door.} 

MRS. MADIGAN. Oh, Mrs. Boyle, God an' 
His Blessed Mother be with you this night 1 

MRS. BOYLE (calmly). What is it, Mrs. 
Madigan? It's Johnny — something about 

MRS. MADIGAN. God send it's not, God send 
it's not Johnny! 

MRS. BOYLE. Don't keep me waitin', Mrs. 
Madigan; I've gone through so much lately 
that I feel able for anything. 

MRS. MADIGAN. Two polismen below wantin' 



MRS. BOYLE. Wantin' me; an' why do they 
want me? 

MRS. MADIGAN. Some poor fella's been 
found, an' they think it's, it's . . . 

MRS. BOYLE. Johnny, Johnny! 

MARY ( with her arms round her mother). Oh, 
mother, mother, me poor, darlin' mother. 

MRS. BOYLE. Hush, hush, darlin'; you'll 
shortly have your own throuble to bear. (To 
MRS. MADIGAN) An' why do the polis think it's 
Johnny, Mrs. Madigan? 

MRS. MADIGAN. Because one o' the doctors 
knew him when he was attendin' with his poor 

MRS. BOYLE. Oh, it's thrue, then; it's 
Johnny, it's me son, me own son! 

MARY. Oh, it's thrue, it's thrue what Jerry 
Devine says — there isn't a God, there isn't a 
God; if there was He wouldn't let these things 

MRS. BOYLE. Mary, Mary, you musn't say 
them things. We'll want all the help we can get 
from God an' His Blessed Mother now! These 
things have nothin' to do with the Will o' God. 
Ah, what can God do agen the stupidity o' men 1 

MRS. MADIGAN. The polis want you to go 
with them to the hospital to see the poor body 
— they're waitin' below, 


MRS. BOYLE. We'll go. Come, Mary, an' 
we'll never come back here agen. Let your 
father furrage for himself now; I've done all 
I could an' it was all no use — he'll be hopeless 
till the end of his days. I've got a little room 
in me sisther's where we'll stop till your 
throuble is over, an' then we'll work together 
for the sake of the baby. 

MARY. My poor little child that'll have no 
father ! 

MRS. BOYLE. It'll have what's far betther— • 
it'll have two mothers. 

(A rough 'voice shoutingfrom below): 
Are yous goin' to keep us waitin' for yous 
all night? 

MRS. MADIGAN (going to the door, and shouting 
down). Take your hour, there, take your hour! 
If yous are in such a hurry, skip off, then, for 
nobody wants you here — if they did yous 
wouldn't be found. For you're the same as 
yous were undher the British Government — 
never where yous are wanted! As far as I can 
see, the Polls as Polis, in this city, is Null an' 

MRS. BOYLE. We'll go, Mary, we'll go; you 
to see your poor dead brother, an' me to see 
me poor dead son! 

MARY. I dhread it, mother, I dhread itl 


MRS. BOYLE. I forgot, Mary, I forgot; your 
poor oul' selfish mother was only thinkin' of 
herself. No, no, you musn't come — it wouldn't 
be good for you. You go on to me sisther's 
an' I'll face th' ordeal meself. Maybe I didn't 
feel sorry enough for Mrs. Tancred when her 
poor son was found as Johnny's been found 
now — because he was a Die-hard! Ah, why 
didn't I remember that then he wasn't a Die- 
hard or a Stater, but only a poor dead sonl 
It's well I remember all that she said — an' it's 
my turn to say it now: What was the pain I 
suffered, Johnny, bringin' you into the world 
to carry you to your cradle to the pains I'll 
suffer carryin' you out o' the world to bring 
you to your grave! Mother o' God, Mother 
o' God, have pity on us all! Blessed Virgin, 
where were you when me darlin' son was 
riddled with bullets, when me darlin' son was 
riddled with bullets? Sacred Heart o' Jesus, 
take away our hearts o' stone, and give us 
hearts o' flesh! Take away this murdherin' 
hate, an' give us Thine own eternal love! 

(They all go slowly out?) 
(There is a pause; then a sound of 
shuffling steps on the stairs outside. 
The door opens and BOYLE and JOXER, 
both of them very drunk, enter?] 


BOYLE. I'm able to go no farther. . , . Two 
polls, ey . . . what were they doin' here, I 
wondher? ... Up to no good, anyhow . , . 
an' Juno an' that lovely daughter o' mine 'with 
them. (Taking a sixpence from his pocket and 
looking at it) Wan single, solithary tanner left 
out of all I borreyed. . . . (He lets it fa//.) 
The last o' the Mohicans. . . . The blinds is 
down, Joxer, the blinds is downl 

JOXER (walking unsteadily across the room, and 
anchoring at the bed]. Put all . . . your 
throubles ... in your oul' kit bag ... an' 
smile . . . smile . . . smile ! 

BOYLE. The counthry'll have to steady itself 
. . . it's goin' ... to hell. . . . Where'r all 
, . . the chairs . . . gone to ... steady 
itself, Joxer. . , . Chairs'll . . . have to 
. . . steady themselves. . . , No matther . . . 
what any one may . . . say. . . . Irelan' sober 
... is Irelan' . . . free. 

JOXER (stretching himself on the bed). Chains 
... an' ... slaveree . . . that's a darlin' 
motto ... a daaarlin' . . . motto! 

BOYLE. If th'worst comes . . . to th'worse 
... I can join a ... flyin' . . . column. 
... I done . . . me bit ... in Easther 
Week . . . had no business ... to ... be ... 
there . . . but Captain Boyle's Captain Boyle! 


JOXER. Breathes there a man with soul . , . 
so ... de ... ad ... this . . , me ' . . 
o . . . wn, me nat . . . ive ! . . . an' ! 

BO/LE (subsiding into a sitting posture on the 
floor). Commandant Kelly died ... in them 
. . . arms . . . Joxcr. . . . Tell me Volun- 
teer Butties . . . says he ... that ... I 
died for . . . Irelan'l 

JOXER. D'jever rade Willie . . . Reilly . . . 
an' his ... own . . . Colleen . . . Bawn? 
It's a darlin' story, a daarlin' story ! 

BOYLE. I'm telling you . . . Joxer , . . th' 
whole worl's ... in a terr . . . ible state o' 
. , . chassis ! 



Printed in Great Britain by K. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. 


Portrait by AUGUSTUS JOHN. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. 

A. K. in The Irish Statesman. — "We all know how moving 'Juno and the 
Paycock ' and 'The Shadow of a Gunman' may be when acted supeibly, as they 
were in Dublin. We did not ask ourselves whether this was literature, because it 
moved us as life itself. . . . Now the plays are printed, and leading without the 
advantage of superb acting to bias judgment, 'Juno and the Paycock ' appears no 
less moving to the imagination than it was when performed. ... I think after 
reading 'Juno and the l'aycock,' that it is one of the greatest of Irish plays." 

JUNO AND THE PAYCOCK. Caravan Library. 
Foolscap 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 

in Four Acts. With Portrait by AUGUSTUS JOHN. 
Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 

The Morning Post. — "Of its dramatic power, its masterly quality, there can 
be no doubt at all. The play grips; its characters are ah\e; its, speech is that 
which comes from living people, and goes to the heart, Jt reveals a fini-ihed 
sense of what is essential, both in dialogue and situation. ... It is difficult to 
record an honest impression of this work without seeming to forget proportion and 
restraint. Its rare quality is so conspicuous, and, in the author's circumstances, so 
amazing. But assuredly it may be said confidently that Ireland has produced no 
such dramatic talent since Synge." 

THE SILVER TASSIE. A Tragi-Comedy in Four 
Acts. With Portrait by EVAN WALTERS. Crown 
8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 

Mr. BERNARD SHAW says: "What a hell of a play! ... a deliberately 
unrealistic phantasmo-poetic first act, intensifying in exactly the same mode into a 
climax of war imagery in the second act, and then two acts of almost unbearable 
realism bringing down all the voodoo war poetry with an ironic crash to earth in 
ruins . . . there is no falling off, or loss of grip — the hitting gets harder and harder 
right through to the end." 



A series including works of established reputation in various branches 
of literature, moderate in price, very handy in size, and neatly and 
attractively bound in plum-coloured cloth or blue leather. 

In cloth binding, 3s. 6d. net each. 
In leather (vols, marked '), 5,. net each. 


The Choir Invisible. 

A Kentucky Cardinal and Aftermath. 
Illustrated by HUGH THOMSON. 


' Essays in Criticism — First Series. 

' Essays in Criticism — Second Series. 

' The Pleasures of Life. 

' The Use of Life. 

' The Beauties of Nature. 

The Little World. 
I Pose. 

The Human Chord. 
A Prisoner in Fairyland. 


English Literature — New Edition, 1925. 

Richard Carvel. 





Elizabeth and her German Garden. 

The Caravaners. 

The Enchanted April. 


' The Story of a Red-Deer. 


' Selected Operas — First Series : 

Trial by fary — Patience — The Yeomen of the Guard 
— The Gondoliers. 

' Selected Operas — Second Series : 

H.M.S. Pinafore — The Pirates of Penzance — 
lolanthe — The Mikado. 


The Soul of a People, 


Human Intercourse. 
The Intellectual Life. 


The Forest Lovers. 
Richard Yea-and-Nay. 

David Livingstone. 


' A Kipling Anthology — Prose. 


Beast and Man in India. 

On Compromise. 

Juno and the Paycock. 

A Beleaguered City. 




' The Renaissance. 

' Marius the Epicurean. 

' Imaginary Portraits. 

' Appreciations. 

' Plato and Platonism. 

' Greek Studies. 

' Miscellaneous Studies. 


' The Man-Eaters of Tsavo, 


Tales of Old Japan. 


The Expansion of England. 


John Inglesant. 


The Charwoman's Daughter. 

' Gitanjali. 


' Juvenilia and English Idyls. 

' In Memoriam, Maud, etc. 

' Ballads, etc. 

' Idylls of the King. 

' Dramas. 


The Virginian. 
A Straight Deal.